The Boy with Kaleidoscope Eyes
by Blue Maple
Summary: Harry dies a second time, and at arriving at King's Cross, discovers that though you can take the horcrux out of the boy, the boy is yet not immune to fear-of-death by association. Not quite time travel, it's yet a trope... But yet...Not. NOW POSTED OVER AT Ao3. See inside for details.
1. Picture Yourself

**August, 1991**

 _Harry has been back for just over a year and a half when the payoff finally occurs. He knows it's been coming for weeks now; Mrs. Figg's bin-out-back has been an invaluable way to keep track of the Wizarding news, never mind the results of his subtle and discreet temporal machinations courtesy of her hidden back-door key and floo... Bit of an inconvenient homebody, yes, but with all those Kneazles to breed and feed, she has to go out for supplies sometimes, and it's for the Greater Good in any case. After a long, long lifetime of living for others, Harry's more than willing to adopt the cliché on his own behalf this time around, and Notice-Me-Not charms are, in his opinion, the most underestimated and greatest invention since treacle tart._

 _He sits on the curb off the corner of the tiny petrol station and convenience market at the corner of Wisteria Walk, scuffing old butts and dusty gravel into weary little piles with the toe of one trainer as he nervously shreds a scrap of napkin. The bus – Muggle, not Knight - wheezes to a halt, and a single passenger disembarks. It is a man, gaunt and scraggly, but clean for all that, and carrying a simple leather satchel. He has the face of a beaten and debased angel, and hungry, wild eyes. When he spots Harry opposite, he halts in his tracks and stares. Harry stares back, the can of Coke beside him forgotten. In the breathless, dry moment, his fractured universe slams back together, spinning behind the smeared lens of his glasses, and he lets out a small, pained sound, almost a whimper. Harry stumbles to his feet as the man approaches, his thin child's hands clutching at his thighs. The man crosses the street in three great loping strides, but slams on the brakes for the last, approaching him almost gingerly. He stands before Harry, looking down at him, and his own hands, pale and thin as Harry's own, whiten to near translucent as he clenches them against his emotion._

 _"Hello, Harry," Sirius Black whispers. "My God. Oh my..." He brings his free hand up to cover his bitten, scarred lips: the grey dry stubble, those hungry, wild eyes. Eleven-year-old Harry reaches up and touches the hand wonderingly._

 _"Padfoot," he whispers. The hand drops. So does the satchel, and then Sirius is lifting him in his arms, and Harry is wrapping his legs around his waist and burying his face in the thin, rough neck as he frantically inhales the scents of stale cigarettes and hospital linens, and they stand there for a long time as the broken pieces of their mutual worlds spin and reform like the broken shards in a kaleidoscope, creating something both old and new and brilliant and beautiful, and finally, finally,_ right.

Harry Potter had died at the ripe old age of a hundred thirty seven, his wife Ginevra heading the bright army of their spawned generations at his deteriorating and celebrated side. He'd woken, as he had once before, in the train station at King's Cross. The Old Guard was there, waiting with banners and the loaded trolley cart. **The Next Great Adventure** , the pamphlet someone shoved in his hand said, and oh _God_ , he wanted them to just go _away_ , because he'd had enough adventure for any hundred lifetimes, and if the reward was just more of the same...

He'd stood there stubbornly till they all drifted away, confused and hurt and bewildered. _Mist and shade, shall this too fade?_ he'd thought, surprised; he hadn't actually thought it would _work_ ; he was just pitching a bit of a last hurrah of a tantrum on principle; he'd been Voldemort's horcrux, after all, and something of the man's antipathy towards his own end had been bound to show at the last moment - but then the train had faded to white, and the white to pale, and _bloody buggering hell,_ he'd panicked momentarily. _I don't want to be a_ ghost, _that wasn't the plan, I don't want..._

 _Maybe I should have thought this through. Aren't House affiliations and associated tendencies supposed to die when you do?_

Then he'd faded too, and when he'd solidified again, it was to the stuff of nightmares, or at least of annoying and near-excessively never quite forgotten, bad dreams. _Bloody buggering hell,_ he'd said out loud as he'd found himself on his back under a ragged sheet, in a small boot cupboard that in the worst, most humid days of summer, could pass for the Gateway to Mordor. Less than two inches from his nose, a smaller, but no less intimidating version of Shelob greeted him cordially. Harry batted her away, and sat up, sweating and grimy in the dark. _Do_ not _tell me. Do not..._

A quick peek down his tattered drawers had confirmed it, and he'd flopped back, half-moaning half laughing, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes.

 _I've died and gone to hell,_ he'd thought despairingly, but after perhaps another moment of wallowing, he'd sat up again, blinking in realization as the kaleidoscope spun behind his eyes. Seconds later he was scrambling out of the cupboard into the moonlit kitchen, and was staring at the calendar on the wall, each day neatly and compulsively checked off in blue ink.

 _Nineteen eighty nine_ , he'd whispered aloud. _December twentieth, nineteen eighty nine,_ and he glanced out the window at the snow-swollen full moon, and sat down hard, right there in the middle of the pristine scrubbed floor of the late and unlamented 4 Privet Drive. _Solstice night, what dark and mirthful magic is this, bloody buggering bollocky_ hell _._

A timeless while later, Harry Potter pushed himself to his feet, nicked a frosted Christmas tree from the cookie jar on the counter beside the microwave – say what you would about Aunt Petunia, but her pistachio shortbread was to literally die for - and retreated back to his cupboard. Moments later it opened again, and he padded out, went to the fridge, hauled out every fixing he could find, and made himself a sandwich that would have had Ron weeping in admiration and/or lust. That wandless Notice-Me-Not, courtesy of Auror 101, worked just as well in the pursuit of ham, beef, chicken and cheese as it had in the pursuit of Dark Wizards.

Harry considered his options as he sat at the table in his drawers, skinny bare legs swinging freely as he demolished the sandwich and guzzled a full two pints of full-cream milk straight from the bottle (heavily laced with chocolate squeeze from the other bottle alongside; Dudders had always shrieked as if poisoned if anyone ever dared to suggest that he should drink the stuff plain). His options and his priorities.

 _December 20_ _th_ _,_ he said aloud. His voice was as thin and small and boyish as befitted a nine year old. _Five days till Christmas_.

He polished off the last of the sandwich, glugged the last of the milk, rinsed his dishes neatly and wiped the counter out of habit (that old saying on how if you wanted to know how a witch would turn out you should look at her mother had, at his end, proved dismayingly accurate; he'd loved Ginny, but bloody buggering _bollocks_ , she'd turned into a harridan over crumbs and smears in her old age), and ran a hand through his hair as he stretched mightily and contentedly... He was about to head back to his cupboard when he heard a noise from the other room. Curious, he slipped down the hall and peered in. Dudley was there, poking and prodding at piles of presents, a glinting razor blade in hand as he carefully sliced bits of paper and squinted to see what lay underneath. Harry rolled his eyes as he leaned against the door in the moonlight and watched. The hiss of disappointment was almost as predictable as the gigantic cloud of gas that escaped as the pudgy boy bent over too far.

Nostalgia was one thing, Harry reflected as he beat a hasty retreat, gagging. Some memories, more than others, were better left dead and buried. Dead and buried and _rotted,_ and the walls rattled again, and he shut himself in the musty dark gratefully. Shelob winked at him from all eight of the shimmering full moons of her eyes.

 _Full moon,_ he thought. _Right. Priorities._ _Let's see how_ this _does you for a Yuletide present, Moony old man._

Harry scrabbled in the far corner of the closet, retrieved a crumpled piece of paper and a broken crayon, and began to scribble in concentration. He wasn't the best potioneer ever to come out of Hogwarts by a long shot, nor even one of the most mediocre, but Luna's boy, Lorcan, had been bitten when he was twenty, and after the first transformation had emerged, not broken, but furious and indignant.

"Bugger _this_ shit " he'd said roundly as he'd mauled his way through twice-wolf high stacks of research on the subject from every available resource. "I'm not going through _that_ every month for the next hundred years," and when the stacks had proved useless, he'd hauled out his cauldron and the remains of his seventh year potions kit, and, with the kind of single-minded focus that had, on the part of Tom Riddle (though coupled with a great deal more sanity) made Harry's first childhood less than ideal, had proceeded to hammer out a liquid cure for lycanthropy in six months flat.

It even tasted good – a bit like spiced plum cake, with a wicked whiskied kick. As a really added bonus it was made of entirely, perfectly normal Muggle ingredients (the secret, apparently, was in the Mr. Smiley enviro-cleaning fluid) and had a brewing time of precisely fifteen minutes and six seconds. All happy coincidences for a nine year old wizard-in-temporary-exile, and the finished product not only solved the proverbial furry little problem, but also mixed well with Christmas pudding and soothed the stomach besides.. . Aunt Petunia was as predictable as she was nasty, and tomorrow, December 21st, Harry would be put to work mixing the icing for the fruit cakes she made for St. Andrew's Tinsel Fair on the 23rd. It wouldn't be hard at all to sneak a tailored tin into the mail – he was in charge of walking the finished results over to the church too, after all, and after that...

Harry Potter tucked the remembered recipe under his pillow and fell promptly and soundly asleep.


	2. In a Boat on a River

**Madam Malkin's Robe Shop**

 **Diagon Alley**

 **Several Hours Later**

"So what is it like?' the blond boy asked greedily. Madam Malkin rolled her eyes and jabbed him with a pin (quite intentionally, Harry was almost sure) but the boy ignored her, aside from an absent swat. Harry held out an arm patiently upon request of the avidly eavesdropping assistant as he kept an eye on Sirius through the window. His godfather was standing in line outside the bookshop chatting with Remus Lupin, and occasionally leaning over to lick chocolate ice-cream slobberingly, cheerfully and obviously off the ex-were's lips. Gross, yes, no matter your age and perspective, but it was also kind of sweet... Harry hadn't been remotely surprised when Sirius had told him on the bus-ride to London that he was living with a male friend, but he'd been absolutely shocked when they'd met with Remus at the Leaky Cauldron and witnessed their warm, intimate greeting. Tonks and Teddy considered, 'living with a male friend' hadn't really processed as _'living_ with a male _friend'_ till the tongues had confirmed it, but then again...

He'd spent the last sixteen months, Sirius had told him awkwardly on the bus ride, living and recovering in a small private wizarding hospital after an unjust criminal conviction and ten years' hard time, and he'd re-met Remus, an old school friend, there, while he'd been undergoing some monthly tests... Harry, naturally, had inquired on what kind of tests, and after a long pause, Sirius had told him the truth flat out – that his friend had been a werewolf, and Christmas before last had been gifted with a miracle – a spontaneous cure for his condition.

"Huh," Harry had said. Petunia's fruitcake had been described in many ways over the years, but never miraculous. That year's batch had been particularly bad, and in the interests of Remus actually eating random and horrifying baked goods that came through the anonymous post, he'd resorted to a mild compulsion charm. "You mean, he just stopped changing one month?'

"Yes," Sirius said. "Some months were a lot harder than others, and leading up to that one moon, he just thought he was going to have an easy time of it, for a nice change – but he waited and waited, and he just never transformed. He waited the next month, at St. Mungo's - that's Britain's biggest Wizarding hospital- and he didn't change again. The third month, he got official government confirmation that he's cured. He still goes into the smaller clinic now every month, so that they can take some blood and have a cuppa while they run the results, but nothing's changed. He's a hundred percent human now."

Harry had wrinkled his nose.

"Well, he would be, wouldn't he?' he'd said reasonably, and at Sirius' odd look... "He was always human, he just had..." He'd paused. Sirius' lips had twitched.

"A furry little problem?' he'd suggested, and when Harry had grinned and nodded, he'd put an arm around him tightly and squeezed till the ancient leather of his jacket squeaked. Harry had pulled away, as befitted a shy eleven year old, but when he had, he'd held up the pack of cigarettes he'd pinched out of his godfather's pocket.

"Really?' he said. "Cigarettes? These things are gross. They showed us movies at school, from people who smoked, and their lungs were all black and sticky and rotting, and the people who inhaled them sounded like..." He sucked in a rattling breath in a passable imitation of a pre-adolescent dementor. Sirius promptly turned green, had opened the dirty window of the bus, and had tossed the pack under the wheels.

"Don't do that again pup," he'd ordered. "Brr. Now I've got the willies."

"Better than cancer," Harry had said heartlessly. Wizards, he knew, rarely got cancer – their version of it was magic, rather than cellular growth gone feral - but when they did, it caused, past the point, constant pain equivalent to the Cruciatius. It was one of the few conditions in their world where euthanasia was permitted, even on medical grounds. In all ofhis hundred thirty odd years, Harry had only known one person with the condition – but that one person had been Charlie Weasely, and he had, upon agonized request from his beloved brother-in-law, done the dubious honors himself so that his blood family wouldn't have to. It had been, without question, the hardest thing he'd ever had to do in his life, and that included the collective emotional impact of dealing with Tom Bloody Buggering Riddle and all of his bollocky groupies.

"Anyway," Sirius had continued. "Remus and I met up again at the hospital, the month that I came in, and since we were roommates at school and knew we could get along, decided that once I got out, we might as well share a flat. It'll work better too now," he'd added awkwardly, "since I've put in a petition for your custody. The Ministry probably wouldn't grant it if it was just me; I'm certified fit now, but I still have a lot of whaddayacall'ems, flashbacks, and you have your relatives besides, but with Remus in house, and cured... He's a respectable member of society now, teaches at Hogwarts and everything, and we were both great mates with your parents besides. Everybody knows that. Between the two of us, we should have no... well, not a lot... of trouble pushing the petition through."

"Your flat-mate teaches at Hogwarts?' Harry's eyes had widened at that. _He_ hadn't been expecting _that._ For the first time since he'd returned – been reborn, self-reincarnated, whatever... he felt uncertain. All of the changes that he'd wrought so far in his world... Well. _He'd_ wrought. Maybe, he thought, he should allow himself to be sorted into Slytherin this time. There had to be someone there who'd be happy to mentor him in thinking on the repercussions of his actions.

Someone besides Snape, of course.

He changed his mental subject there rapidly.

"What does he teach?' he wanted to know. "Remus, I mean."

"History of Magic. Every other year, anyway. The professor who generally teaches the course is a ghost, and has no concept of time anymore, so the headmaster is just going to tell him every other year that seven years has passed and he's due a sabbatical. On his off years, he'll be teaching Defense against the Dark Arts. There's a bit of a curse on the position," he'd added casually. "Nobody can hold the position for more than a year without crapping out or kicking it – but that's years in a _row_ , we reckon, and if he breaks the pattern with time off between, he should be fine."

"Should be?'

"It's a risk," Sirius admitted. "But he's willing to take it. Well, after he made arrangements in his contact so that he's paid double the years he teaches History, and nothing at all the years he's teaching DADA. And there'll be no actual contract those years either; he'll be volunteering, so he won't officially be the instructor. "

"And you're sure that'll work?'

"Yeah." Sirius' canines had flashed. "Pretty sure. The wizard who threw the curse liked to cover his bases, as the Americans say, but the word 'volunteer' wasn't in his vocabulary. He was more of a coerce and enslave kind of guy."

"Huh," Harry had said again, and then, with a deliberate excited wriggle in his seat that made his godfather's thin lips twitch fondly and wonderingly... "Can you tell me the rules of Quiddish? I read about it, and it sounds absolutely brilliant. Did you ever play? Do you think I'll ever get to play?" He sat up straight. "Are brooms really expensive? You said my parents left me some money, do you think there'd be enough for a broom?'"

"Quidditch," Sirius corrected. The twitch had turned to a full, almost clownlike smile, radiant on his face, and the wild in his eyes was tamed by bright, shining tears. "Yes, yes, depends on the broom, absolutely, and ..." Harry had squeaked as the man had hauled him into his lap and hugged him so hard he thought he'd break. Just as hastily, he was set back, but he snuggled up a bit this time, and Sirius wiped his face and put a long, bony arm around him comfortably.

"Quidditch," he began. "Is only the greatest game in the known universe. It's played with four balls, six hoops, seven valiant souls on a single shared mission – unless they're Slytherins; they all sell their souls to Salazar as ickle firsties in exchange for certified blood status, and operate on sheer sleaze afterwards..."

"POTTER! I asked you a _question_!"

"Uh. Oh. Sorry. Was is ...what like?' Harry asked, jerking his attention back to the present reluctantly.

"Living with those _Muggles,"_ the boy said, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "Nobody knew where you were, not until Black put in his petition for you, and now it's all over the papers. What are they _like_?"

"Oh. Oh. Um. They're not so bad." Harry held up the other arm. He could hold a grudge there, he supposed, but on the whole, he'd decided that out of sight, out of mind was probably the most psychologically healthy way to go, and it wasn't like he ever planned to go back to Privet Drive. He wasn't quite sure how he was going to manage that yet. Sirius had that petition in for official guardianship, as well as permission to house him for the last month before school started, but despite his intensive therapy with the Mind Healers at St. Mungo's, his godfather still seemed bit fragile when it came to asserting himself, and Dumbledore, bless his heart, could be persistent when he got his mind fixed on something. For the moment, though, Harry decided that it didn't hurt to be optimistic. "My aunt makes really good cookies. My cousin and I don't get on, but that's more essential personality conflict than anything else." Draco looked at him blankly at that. Harry mentally kicked himself, and adjusted his vocabulary. "We're not alike," he clarified. "In really basic ways."

"No? What kind of ways?" Draco Malfoy asked, pale eyes brightening as he tried rather obviously for casual and failed miserably in sight of something so potentially crucial that he could Tell His Father. Madam Malkin sighed loudly and impatiently through her nose, and glared out the window in the direction of Malfoy's scarpered parents. Harry was suddenly and viscerally reminded of a sign he once saw in a Muggle toy shop: UNATTENDED CHILDREN SHALL BE PRIMED WITH ESPRESSO AND GIVEN FREE PUPPIES. Somehow, he thought, coffee and puppies weren't quite what the irritated seamstress had in mind.

"He's blond," Harry said. "Not too bright... Thinks a lot of himself. More than enough of himself for both of us."

A feminine giggle, quickly suppressed, sounded from the assistant behind him. Malfoy sniffed.

"Sounds like a bit of a dud," he said disdainfully.

"A lot of a Dud," Harry contradicted. Malfoy nodded in what he thought of as understanding, and as Madam Malkin nodded to him, hopped down. "Well, I must go now. Mother's waiting. Nice to meet you Potter; shall we look for each other on the train?'

"Why not." Harry watched the door swing shut. Madam Malkin cleared her throat.

"That's you done, dear," she said. "Pick-up in an hour or so? It'll give you time for a nice ice cream; tell Florean I said that you didn't force me to stab you, and he'll give you an extra scoop."

"Thanks, Madam," he said. As he was about to leave, he cocked his head curiously. "If you don't mind my asking... What House were _you_ in?'

"Slytherin." She patted his cheek. "Don't believe everything you hear, Mr. Potter – or judge a House by those who insist on being showcased. You'd look lovely in green."

"Pup!" Sirius poked his head in before he could respond. "Moony said he's happy to get the books for us, and it looks like there's a lull at Ollivander's. Let's grab your wand, and then..."

"BROOM!" Harry chanted. "BROOM, BROOM, BROOM, BROO..." It was not remotely put on. He hadn't been on a broom in almost forty years, not since he was cursed by that wretched Milk-Chocolate Lord Wencit Wannabe and lost his ability to keep his balance in flight at speeds above five miles an hour.

"Ahem," his godfather said at the disapproving look of a passing hag. "Yes. Well. Remember, you'll have to leave it with me. First years..."

"Aren't allowed brooms. I know, I know." They ducked across the street and down to Ollivander's.


	3. With Tangerine Trees

**Ollivander's Wand Shop**

"No," he said firmly as Ollivander finished his spiel, and held out his hand. Ollivander looked at it, and him, askance.

"I beg your pardon?' he huffed.

"I don't care if it likes me," Harry said. "I don't want it. No offense," he said to the object he was holding. "I'm sure you're brilliant. I just don't think we're meant to be."

"Young man, I don't think you understand how this process works. You do not just say no to the wand that chooses you! They have..." The old man drew himself up indignantly. " _Feelings_!"

The holly and phoenix feather wand, as if in sad agreement, coughed up a last forlorn and faded red spark. Harry rolled his eyes internally. He'd loved that wand, but there was no doubt that it (like he, he was more than a little embarrassed to admit) could be a bit of a drama queen.

"I don't think you understand how _I_ work," he said clearly. "I don't mind the thought of being great, or of doing great things; I'm just not going to do them with the brother wand of the wand that cursed me and killed my parents." He held out the wand a moment longer and when Ollivander refused to take it, placed it firmly on the counter. Sirius pinched his nose, half in frustration and half in amusement.

"I know this is a bit rich coming from me – no, pup, don't ask; I'll tell you the details when you're a bit older – but one really can't blame one's relatives for _everything_."

"No," Harry returned. "One can't. That doesn't mean one has to put oneself in situations where one is constantly reminded, either. "

It was sound reasoning, there was no doubt about that, but there was considerably more to it _than_ that. Over the years – and Dumbledore had never denied it, though he'd never confirmed it either, through his portrait or in person – the reluctant Boy-Who-Lived had come to suspect that his wand hadn't so much chosen him as been nudged in his direction. Certainly the old headmaster would have had a lot easier time putting tracking charms and whatnot on a wand with a core from his familiar, and Harry knew very well that if the wand hadn't truly liked him it wouldn't have attached itself to him under any circumstance, but still. There was no point in encouraging that kind of obsessive-compulsive behavior.

The light from the wand dimmed a bit. It almost seemed to heave a resigned sigh. Harry glared at it, mentally daring it to twinkle. It skittered a little instead, spinning once as if to turn its back on him and sulk.

"Can't argue with that, I suppose," his godfather said. "Fine. What else have you got?'

Ollivander looked more than a bit affronted at the lack of theoretically adult support, but returned to the back. Again, he was gone some time, but when he returned, he put two boxes in front of Harry. Harry eased the lid off the first, and peeked in. He recognized the contents immediately. He had to stifle a grin, remembering his first reaction upon seeing Gryffindor House's universal reaction to the delicately colored and carved instrument in the hand of its proud new owner.

"It's. Um. Very pink, isn't it?" he ventured. "And lacy?'

"Japanese cherry," Ollivander said austerely. "Harvested at the spring Solstice, with a core of newborn unicorn hair. An exceedingly rare and powerful combination for a wizard or witch with exceedingly rare and powerful potential. "

Harry picked it up and waved it obligingly. It twisted in his hand, and a warm bubbly spray of water shot out and splashed over his face with a sound not unlike a raspberry. He sputtered. The wand hummed, as if laughing... He put it back gingerly, remembering how Neville Longbottom, under all that shy and stammer, had had a rather ridiculously ... basic... sense of humor. He lifted the lid of the second box.

"Wow," he said. "That's... Really cool. You can see the core right through the wood!"

"Petrified amber," Ollivander confirmed. "Twelve inches even, encasing the heartstring of a Hungarian Horntail. "

"Huh. What else has it got going on?"

"I don't know," the old man said, more than a bit shortly. "It's unprecedented. It's got a bit of a mercurial and whimsical temperament; that' s all I can tell you, though if you suit, the source of the core considered, I'd suggest you learn to control your temper. And don't tell me you haven't got one; every witch or wizard ever paired with a Horntail as been touchier than a Knockturn courtesan."

"Oi!" Sirius snapped. "Rich again, coming from me, but again... _Eleven_!"

"Mm. Occlumency wouldn't hurt either. I have a suspicion that the transparency of the resin will translate."

"Occlu... What?' Harry inquired obligingly.

"Mind shielding," Sirius translated. He actually looked a bit worried now. Harry shrugged and picked up the wand, giving it a wave. For a moment, it did nothing, and then, deep inside the semi-transparent shell, the core seemed to burst into flame: brilliant blues and reds and gold flames that tumbled along the length of the wand and warmed it to near-burning in his hand. .. At the same time, he felt an inquiring mental prod, and he slapped back automatically and sharply... The flame subsided somewhat, and the wand cooled a bit... In the back of his mind, he heard a deep, serpentine hiss of surprised laughter. His scar tingled.

"Not much going on there," Ollivander said, just as Harry said... "I'll take it. I'll take them both."

"The amber and the holly?' the old man says hopefully.

"No. The amber and the cherry. I read somewhere that you should always have a back up wand," he added at Sirius' surprised look, and as Moony entered... "Remus! Come check out my new wands!"

"You found two that suit?' his former/new professor said, pleased. "Oh, that's handy, isn't it? It's always good to have an extra." He came over, arms laden with bags of books, peered – and immediately jumped back in surprise as the holly wand, sitting on the counter, shot up, literally, and battered him excitedly about the head. Ollivander blinked. Remus set down the bags and grabbed the wand, waving it. A rain of golden stars poured out, circling him and enfolding him till he glowed.

"Balls," Sirius said in awe. "That's ... What is _that_?'

"Seven galleons. Eight for the cherry, and twenty five for the amber."

"Twenty... _What_?'

"It's one of a kind."

"They're all one of a kind! Twenty five _galleons_? That's just criminal, and hello, Azkaban? Ten years? I know whereof I speak!"

"I don't mind, Padfoot," Harry dug out his money bag. "It's worth it."

"Put that thing away, would you?' his new guardian-to-be said , exasperated, and pulled out his own money bag. "Fine, fine. We'll take all three. Knock it off, Moony, there's natural radiance and then there's just showing off.'

"You should know, Remus," Harry said belatedly as Lupin snapped out of his starry haze. "That's the brother wand of the wand of the guy that cursed me."

"You don't say," the ex-were said, examining it with fresh interest. "How very apropos, considering I plan to use it to help bring down the guy who cursed _me."_

"Shoulda used that kind of argument straight up," Sirius said to the shopkeeper. "It really liked Harry," he explained to his bemused partner. "But he didn't reciprocate."

"Oh sure, it _liked_ me," Harry teased. "But it _lurrrrves_ Remus."

Remus tweaked his ear. Harry yelped and laughed, ducking away.


	4. And Marmalade Skies

As it turned out, Sirius and Remus lived, not in a flat, nor at 12 Grimmauld Place, but in a quintessentially cosy little cottage at the bottom of a small, deep valley in central Wales. There was a creek running through that culminated in a dammed up swimming pond; it was half-surrounded by a lovely rich wood, and far off in the high distance were the ageless grey mountains. Beyond those, Remus told him as he and Sirius sat on the porch steps that first cool evening, Harry snugged between them as they all worked their ways through huge bowls of savory lamb stew and even larger stacks of warm oatcakes oozing with melted butter (Harry wouldn't have minded a tankard of the spiced ale the men were drinking, but given his current age, had to settle for thick, rich apple cider), was the sea... They would go, Sirius promised him, before the summer was over, and he put his bowl aside and his long arm around both of them.

"I know it's a bit selfish of me, pup," he said. "But I'd kind of like to keep this month for the three of us. We'll tell you whatever you like about the Wizarding world, and go on the odd day trip – mostly to out-of-the-way places; between the three of us we'd attract more attention than you can even begin to imagine - but I'm only going to have another few weeks with you and Moony here before I have to ship you both off to Hogwarts."

Harry just leaned against him.

"I don't want to go anywhere else," he said dreamily. "Ever. This is heaven, right here."

The two men looked at each other.

"Were you unhappy with your aunt and uncle, cub?' Remus asked gently. "Don't take this the wrong way, but Sirius and I were a bit concerned when you suggested in your answer to his initial letter that you two meet away from your house, and well... We couldn't help but notice that you're a bit thin and ragged besides. Oh, and the oculist we took you to says that your glasses prescription was likely a good five or six years out of date. I'd thought your family was fairly well off."

"They are, and they aren't exactly bad to me," Harry said awkwardly. "But my mum and her sister... They didn't get along well. She let me know that early on. They mostly just ignored me, 'specially in the last couple of years." He caught Sirius' thunderous expression. "Leave it, please? I'm here now, and I don't want to think about them anymore."

That was certainly true... He'd known he couldn't hope to hide the specifics of his life with the Dursleys from his new guardians, but still, and in light of the softened details, Harry hoped desperately that they would abide by his wishes. Over a century's worth of practicing as an Auror and dealing with bureaucracy and the press had made him past expert at managing the system, but his skills weren't likely to be of much use now that he was eleven again, not in any situation where he had to be his own front-man anyway.

"I just want shot of them," he said, aloud. "For good. No more trouble, alright?'

Both men sighed.

"If that's what you want, cub," Remus too put an arm around him. His cure had made an amazing difference in his appearance; he still retained that aura of the gentle, diffident professor, but he now stood taller and straighter, he was heavier of course – he looked as if he'd gained a good two stone of solid muscle and flesh over the last time Harry had seen him - his hair was shinier and thicker, and even the grey there seemed faded. Most striking though, were his eyes, gone from light brown with flecks of amber to a deep, rich chocolate, and the way he moved – lightly on his feet, as if he was ever about to break into a joyous loping run just for the sake of the fact that he could do so without pain. He was, Harry had thought when they'd remet, absolutely beautiful, and had immediately started running down the list of students currently enrolled at Hogwarts who were likely to start paying attention in Snape's class just for the ability to spike the good professor Lupin's evening tea with love potions. "For now, anyway. If our petition doesn't go through, though, we _will_ be checking in. There _are_ such things as appeals, and for you... We'll take it up with God Himself if that's what it takes."

"It will go through," Harry said firmly, and to change the subject... "Sirius? Er. I don't mean to bring up a bad subject... But how did they finally reckon you were innocent?"

"They caught the bugger who actually did it," Sirius said dryly. "He was an animagus like me, only a rat, and the lazy sod slept through the time he'd have had to transform back into human form and reset in order to keep his mind. He popped back into form right at Christmas dinner, in front of the whole family, and that was _that_."

"Slept through... Huh?'

"Becoming an animagus is a tricky business," Remus explained. "And it's not too good to spend too much time in the animal form, like Sirius says. The longer you stay in though, the harder it is for your mind to remember the importance of changing back, so most wizards an witches set themselves a kind of internal alarm, via magic, that reminds them, and changes them back on their own after a grace period if they can't manage it. Pettigrew spent so much time – almost ten years – in rat form that that would have been essential, but in his instance..."

"He slept through the alarm," Harry finished.

"Yeah." Sirius barked with bitter laughter. "Can't tell you the number of times we had to drag the lazy sod out of bed at school; it irritated the crap out of us, but in the end..."

Harry patted his hand comfortingly. Notice-Me-Nots, he thought for the thousandth time since returning, were amazing things.. It hadn't been hard at all to slip out after posting Remus' fruitcake on the 23nd of December, 1989 and through Mrs. Figg's floo to the inn closest the Burrow, charms firmly intact and a crushed muggle sleeping aid worked into a particularly luscious bit of cheese nicked from the trays at the Tinsel Fair... His own animagus form had been a great asset there, and it had been the work of all of ten minutes, once arrived at the Weasley residence, to locate the rat, spike its dinner tray, and disappear again. He'd been hugely gratified that Boxing Day to read in the Evening Prophet (abandoned again in Figgs' bin-out-back) that Peter Pettigrew had been found, detained, questioned and arrested... The New Year's edition had trumpeted the transfer of Sirius Black from Azkaban to St. Mungo's, after a very brief stop at the DMLE for official vindication.

Nineteen months, Harry thought, had been a long time to wait to hear from him again, but considering how things might have been different the first time around had his godfather been able to get appropriate treatment for his trauma, he didn't begrudge it.

"It's done," Harry said firmly. "It's done, and Remus is cured, and we're all here, and safe..." He looked up belatedly. "Are we safe?'

"Course we are." Sirius barked out another laugh. "This place is not only off the Muggle grid, but under Fidelius as well, and this time, we're our own bloody Secret Keepers. We're not making _that_ mistake again."

"Excellent." He scraped up the last of his lamb stew and sighed contentedly.

He still had Tom to deal with of course. This time though... This time, he not only knew what had to be done, but how to do it, properly and in good time. He'd do it as the nasty job it was that needed doing, but in the meanwhile...

He wouldn't just be the Boy-Who-Lived, Harry vowed to himself. This time, he planned on being the Boy-Who _-Lives._ And never mind that happily-ever-after rot either. This time... This time he was going to be happy-right-now-and-all-along.

And he planned to make damned _sure_ that everyone else he loved did too.

"It's getting cool," Remus said. "And it's been a long day. Why don't we go inside and light a fire, and crack a few of those books we bought today?'

"Oh come on, Moony," Sirius complained. "His first night with us, and you're going to make him do homework?"

"I didn't _just_ buy him his schoolbooks," Remus said mildly. "There might be a copy of Quidditch through the Ages in there too, and, of course, a proper manual of the care and upkeep of his broom." He stood and stretched luxuriously. Harry's jaw dropped as, in the dim, green light of evening, under the first stars, his limbs shifted smoothly.

"What..."

"Werewolves can't become animagi," Sirius grinned at him as his godson goggled in shocked delight. "But he made us teach him the theoreticals after your father and I managed it. It took him, what... Four months after he was pronounced cured?"

Harry thought rapidly. The great, graceful Irish Wolfhound before him shifted back and began to collect the dishes.

"Just thought you should know," he smiled down. "One day, Harry, we'll teach you how to do this."

Harry made a decision. Life, he decided, was too short, and he didn't want to have to hide. Not here.

"You have to be taught?' he asked, carefully and childishly puzzled.

"Of course," Sirius said, amused. "People aren't just born with the ability to transform into animals, pup. It's a lot of work, and... WHOA! Merlin's saggy shit-streaked _shorts_!"

"SIRIUS!" Remus snapped, even as he dug out his wand, flustered, to banish the remains of the shattered dishes he'd dropped. Harry concentrated and popped back into boy-shape.

"I've been able to do that as long as I can remember," he lied. "It _really_ freaked out my aunt the first time it happened. You're saying it's not..." He let his lip quiver a bit, artfully. " _Normal?_ Am I a... _freak_?'

Remus sat down heavily.

"No," he said. "You're just... like Ollivander said of your wand... unprecedented. But then again... I'm not one to talk."

"Do it again, pup," Sirius said, now recovered and quite beside himself with excitement. "Do it again!" He held out his hand. Harry obliged, hovering not on, but just over his palm. The two men gazed in wonder.

"A hummingbird," the ex-were breathed. "Oh, Harry. That's just... You are... _wonderful_!"

"What do they stand for, Rem?' his partner asked. "Do you know? I mean, what do you know about them?'

"They're quick, of course, stupidly so, surprisingly vicious when pressed... Never known to walk when they can fly; I don't think they can walk, that's what the hover is about... Territorial, protective...and are thought of as messengers and ..." He frowned slightly, racking his memory. "There's something else. Something to do with time. I don't quite remember; I'll have to look it up."

Harry buzzed backwards and popped back into boy form. Sirius shook his head.

"I think we'd best keep this one under our hats, pup," he said. "I don't know about Remus, but I've had enough of the poking and prodding from medical officials to last me a lifetime, and if we registered you, the Ministry _would_ put forth a legal motion to bring you in."

"Okay," Harry said, doing his best to look uncertain. "But I can change here, right? With you, because this place is protected?'

"Of course you can," Sirius said bracingly. "Let's go in now, okay? I think we all could use a cuppa right about now."

"Any other secrets you have to share with us, cub?' Remus asked as he collected mugs. "While you're at it?'

Harry pretended to think, waiting for the exact right moment, and then...

"I can talk to snakes," he said. "Does that count?'

"WHAT?"

"Damn. I liked those mugs too." The ex-were waved his wand. "Alright, young man. Inside with you. Padfoot, go put the tea on, and transfigure a few of the cups to spillproof plastic while you're at it..."


	5. Somebody Calls You

**The Hogwarts Express**

 **September 1** **st** **, 1991**

The train was brilliant, as always. Harry lounged in the last compartment, socked feet propped on the casement of the window, and wiggled his finger deep into the hole on the top of one of the even two dozen raspberry cream-filled chocolate cauldron cakes that Remus had baked him for the train ride. The nicest part about being a kid again, he reflected as he slouched down in his seat so deeply that he might as well have been sitting on his neck rather than his bum, was having the liberty to _act_ like a kid again. People _expected_ him to act like a kid. They _wanted_ him to act like a kid. He intended to take full advantage of the fact for as long as he could get away with it, never mind Dumbledore's insistence that he have a happy, ignorant childhood.

That being said.. if that barmy old coot actually thought that he was going to go prancing down with Ron and Hermione through those stupid traps to confront Turbano-Tom again, he had another think coming. His Mental Healer (mandatory issue for all Auror candidates, Dark Lord Vanquishers or not) had been absolutely appalled when she'd realized that most of the chronic PTSD he'd suffered had had its roots, not just from the chronic emotional and physical neglect that he'd suffered as a child, but from the fact that he'd killed a man with his bare hands when he was eleven, and nobody had ever bothered asking him how he felt about the fact. Harry had a distinct impression that that would have changed under Remus, at least, but it wasn't a theory he intended to test.

No, _this_ barmy old coot had a Plan. It involved a bit of calculated risk, certainly, (case in point, rejecting his old wand with that handy shared core in favor of a new wand and an accumulated 12 decades of magical advancements and practical experience) but there were certain things that Harry Potter just wasn't willing to go through again for the cause. He fancied he was certainly mentally sturdier than he had been as an original child, but, Quirrell aside, that event with the Philosopher's Stone had set a very bad precedent between him and Dumbledore; that is, that the latter could manipulate events and, more to the point, him, like a puppet on those proverbial prophetic strings.

As the muggle saying went,... Bugger _that_ for a bunch of bananas. No again, Harry avowed as he dug for more raspberry cream. He'd been Dumbledore's man last time, and it had all worked out for the given quantity of best, or at least better, but by God _and_ Godric, he outranked the headmaster now, in age _and_ experience; he was _the_ foremost expert on the Dark Arts in the whole damned world, even if nobody knew it, and he wasn't giving up in-house access to these cauldron cakes in exchange for cold tinned soup, stale bread and unintentionally moldy hunks of cheese for _anyone_.

He polished off the last of the cake, reached for another, and silently toasted (caked?) their maker. To Remus Lupin, a man of many talents, if Sirius was to believed (and Harry was perfectly willing to believe it, beyond the man's inability to remember at stunned moments that he was a _wizard,_ with the ability to repair things like his favourite dishes when they broke), though he really didn't want to think on it after a month of living with two 'flat-mates'-slash-insomniacs. Notice-Me-Not charms now ranked slightly under Silence charms in the reborn wizard's estimation in terms of Best Invention Ever.

Harry wiggled his toes in his socks again. It was so weird, he thought, to have reliably and naturally warm feet again. To have circulation-to-the-extremities that actually worked again. And _joints_ that worked again, and a digestion-and-related that worked again... He wasn't nearly as scrawny as he'd been his first first year; if he'd been hungry as a human at the Dursleys since returning, he'd just popped into hummingbird form when no one was looking and hunted down a few ants and a bit of nectar, but he was yet a growing boy, and that hummingbird metabolism translated.

The compartment door slid open.

"Anyone sitting there?" a tiny, tiny, achingly cute and adorably grubby and self-conscious version of Ron Weasley asked. "Everywhere else is full."

"Knock yourself out," Harry said, once he'd recovered from the shock and had crammed every unexpected and overwhelmingly painful shard of associated memories behind his shields. His heart was fucking _breaking,_ he thought wildly; it had reformed at the sight of Sirius, but was fucking _breaking_ at the sight of the bright, unformed seed of the annoying, exasperating, intemperate, brilliant old _geezer_ who'd (despite his flaws and never quite-vanquished tendency toward virulent and unwarranted jealousy), absolutely defined friendship for him for all fucking _eternity._

"Er. Sorry?"

He'd grabbed a third cauldron cake and practically buried his nose in it out of sheer emotional self-defense.

"Muggle expression," he mumbled. "It means go ahead."

"Oh. Thanks.' Ron sat gingerly on the edge of the seat opposite. "I'm Ron. Ron Weasley. I'll have to tell my dad that one. He likes muggle thi... What _are_ you doing?'

"Eating a cauldron cake." Harry wiggled his tongue deep inside the cauldron cake, emerging with a chocolate mustache and raspberry cream up to his eyebrows. "My uncle made them for me. I'm Harry. Want one?' He held out the plastic container. Ron eyed it, but in the end, couldn't resist. The icing was at least an inch thick.

"Thanks," he said gratefully, and for the next few minutes, the two boys unabashedly played with their food. By the time the cart had passed and Hermione and Neville had made their entrance, Ron had more than that bit of dirt on his nose, and they were both so high on sugar that they were nearly bouncing off the walls of the carriage. Hermione, predictably, sniffed disapprovingly, but there were still plenty left to share, and the touch of mocha in the icing, in the end, proved irresistible. Neville just ate his without fuss or fanfare, staring forlornly out the window. After awhile, Harry deliberately dropped his cherry wand out of his sleeve and let it roll to the boy's feet. He bent automatically to pick it up, and sure enough...

"Whoa!" Ron breathed as the compartment suddenly filled with the heady scent of the wild forest and a veritable rainfall of tiny, tumbling flowers. "What the... Blimey, mate! You've got some serious oomph there, and with another bloke's wand, yet?'

"I don't... I've never..." Neville stammered and shoved the wand back at Harry. "Here, I'm sorry, I didn't mean..."

"No, no, it's okay," Harry reassured him. "It's my back-up wand. I just got it because my uncle wanted me to have an extra. Ron's right though, it really _really_ likes you. Didn't you two meet at Ollivander's?'

"I didn't go to Ollivander's, My gran says... She gave me my dad's wand. For memory's sake."

"For memory's sake?' Ron said, puzzled. "What does that..." Harry poked him. Hard. "Oi! What?'

"Loads of people lost family in the war," he murmured. "My uncle says it's rude to ask. So don't."

Ron flushed and shrank back.

"You should have done," Hermione was saying disapprovingly to Neville. "The wand chooses the wizard, you know. You should buy it from Harry, if he'll let you."

"Sure," Harry offered. "Five galleons. I paid eight for it, but it's second hand."

"Oh, I can't, I can't, Gran would... Dad was a famous Auror, she wants me to be like him, and to turn away his wand..."

"You're not turning it away, you're just getting an extra. Whoever heard of an Auror with just one wand? I bet your father would say _that_ too. She says anything, tell her what happened, and that you bought it fair and square from me, and if she still argues, tell her take it up with my godfather. Sirius Black. He'll set her straight."

Nev dithered but in the end, dug into his trunk and pulled out a small bag. Four golden galleons and a double handful of silvery sickles later, and he was sitting back and stroking his new possession in awe... Ron, recovered from his embarrassment, had to stuff a handful of Bertie Botts' in his mouth to stifle the sniggers.

"Kinda pink, innit, mate?' he said in a low, conspiratorial whisper. "And the engraving's a bit. I dunno. _Frilly_."

"It's cherry," Neville said. "It symbolizes death and rebirth. Awakenings. And the unicorn hair... Unicorns heal, you know." The note of pained wistfulness in his quiet voice was shatteringly poignant, and Harry caught his breath... Neville looked up at him and caught his expression. Harry swallowed hard, and suddenly, there was a twinge behind his eyes. He twitched convulsively, and the amber wand slipped out of his right sleeve and smoothly into his palm. It immediately caught everyone's attention.. Hermione was beside him in an instant, breathless.

"Is that... What _is_ that?' she squeaked in awe. "I didn't see that one in the shop, look; it's on fire inside!"

"It's amber," Harry said as if from a distance. The tingle behind his scar – not exactly painful, more of the way his foot felt when it was waking up after he'd sat on it too long and set it to sleep – was suddenly intense, and the hissing was back again... It wasn't exactly Parseltongue, he thought as he listened intently, but it was definitely, _definitely_ related. With a little bit of effort... "Petrified tree resin. The core is the heartstring of a Hungarian Horntail. It was..." He paused. He didn't know how he knew, but ... "It was old when it died. The oldest dragon in the British Isles. Maybe all of Europe. "

"Wicked," Ron breathed, and actually wiped his hand on his joggers before he reached out to touch it. "I gotta tell Charlie," and then, suddenly... "Old and young."

'Huh?'

"Your wand... It's really old, innit? And Nev's is all about beginnings. Birth. Spring. That's pretty cool. It's like... It's like you go together."

And the truly stunning thing there was that there was no jealousy there. Not one iota, just soft, naive curiosity and wonder. Harry slid the wand in his sleeve again. It hummed against his forearm. Watching him closely, Neville did the same thing, awkwardly.

"No, don't put it away yet! Cast a spell with it, Neville," Hermione urged him. "See how it feels!"

"I don't know, I..."

The compartment door slammed open. Incipient-Malfoy was standing there, Crabbe and Goyle at his back and baby sneer firmly intact, but before he could say a word, a badly startled Neville's wand was in his hand.

"VINUS INCARCEROUS!"

"What the bloody hell?' Malfoy crashed to the floor as whip thin green and pink-tinged vines sprang out of the wand, enveloping and wrapping him so tightly he squawked. "What the HELL, Longbottom?!"

"Oop," Neville said, flustered. "Um. Sorry? You scared me."

"Draco?' Crabbe ventured. "I think you got... Why do you have grapes all over you?'

" _Grapes_?'

Harry howled. Ron fell to the floor sobbing with mirth. Hermione came over and plucked a velvety purple orb and popped it in her mouth.

"Mm," she said. "Much better than all that chocolate. And as for the grapes... it only makes sense. Vines, you know. Only they're bound to be all over...' Her voice, and the lofty tones inherent, faded out at Incipient-Malfoy's furious glare, and she blushed and grabbed another grape before retreating to her seat and flapping furiously through the book she'd been carrying when she arrived.

"GET ME OUT OF HERE! _NOW,_ YOU GREAT PLONKER!"

"I'm really sorry Malfoy," Neville sounded genuinely apologetic. "I don't know the countercurse."

"How did you cast it in the first place?" Hermione asked, looking up from her book. "It says here that 'Incarcerous' is a charm, not a hex or curse, but it's a sixth year spell! You told us that you were practically a squib!" It sounded both betrayed and accusing.

"I don't _know_!" Neville wailed. "I've never done it before! I've _seen_ it done; our gardener on our country estate use it to catch things – bears, mostly – when they wander onto the property, but the vines come out of the ground, not their wands, and I don't even think he _reached_ sixth year!"

"If the vines come out of the ground, it's only fourth year or so," Hermione said knowledgeabley. "Becaue you wouldn't be conjuring, would you, just encouraging what was already there." Her eyes narrowed. "Maybe it's the wand itself? I mean, if you've never done much magic, and you finally get a wand that's really attuned to you, it might just offer you the little extra on the first go..." She sat up straight. "Do me," she ordered commandingly.

" _What_?'

"What what? It's _grapes_ , it's not going to hurt me! I want to see if you can do it again!"

Ron looked at her as if she were barmy. Neville obviously dared not disobey; he pointed the cherry wand at her, and tremblingly repeated the incantation.. Absolutely nothing happened.

"Guess it was just a one-off after all," she said, looking both disappointed and relieved, and plunged her nose back into the book. "Or maybe it was a combination of the wand and accidental magic; we're still really young, after all, and you did say you were scared..."

"Bloody hell," Harry gasped as he finally picked himself up. "I don't care where that came from; that was brilliant, Nev. Okay, Malfoy, hold still. I'll cut you loose." He pulled out his own wand and flicked the tip in a yet another near-automatic, thoughtless movement he'd learned at Auror Camp. The edge of the wand immediately thinned and sharpened to a gleaming razor-edge.

"Cooool!" Goyle whistled, impressed. "How'd you get it do _that?"_

 _Bugger. Again._

 _I_ have _to stop doing that._

"I asked nicely?' Harry said after a moment, trying to sound puzzled and naive.

"You asked... You talk to your _wand_?'

He couldn't help himself. He didn't try .Just at that moment, the kid sounded _exactly_ like his snot-nosed, skeptical great-great-great-great grand-nephew, Percy Ignatius Weasley the fourth.

"Sure," he said, poker-faced "My godfather says that a boy's wand is his best friend. He said I should talk to it, and play with it, and polish it every nigh.."

"HARRY!" Hermione's face is aflame. "STOP!"

Ron sprawled back, gasping and weak. Neville tried to look prim and failed spectacularly. Crabbe and Goyle just looked excited at the possibilities. Malfoy banged his head against the floor. A cluster of grapes fell from his hair and splatted messily.


	6. You Answer Quite Slowly

The stars hung heavy over the lake and the forest. Harry clutched the plastic container with the last remaining cauldron cake to his thin chest as the straggling line of children emerged from the passage beyond the underwater harbor, pausing to catch his breath.

"Alright there, Harry?' Hagrid's disembodied voice said from behind him.

"Yeah," Harry said. He wiped the sweat from his face with the corner of his robe. His tension on the journey up from King's Cross had grown exponentially with every mile. He'd done a quick tour of the length of train while under a disillusionment charm cast on himself while in the loo, and had found himself astonished and uneasy at how few faces he recognized immediately, even from his own year. _A hundred twenty eight years,_ he thought. _A hundred twenty two since I was seventeen, and that's all the thanks I can offer them for dying on my word?_

He was ashamed.

At first he tried to reason with himself. A hundred twenty two years was a long, _long_ time. The world, both Muggle and Magical, had changed immeasurably since his Hogwarts days – hell, _magic_ had changed immeasurably; spell design had become a hugely popular career choice after that scare in '43 when Wencit Wannabe had nearly blown the lid of the Statute of Secrecy for good and the Segregationists and/or willfully stupid/blind/dumb had finally processed the impact of what Muggles could do, as opposed to what they _couldn't_ do. The courses he had ahead of him were, not to put too fine a point on it, an exercise in nostalgia; the basics would always remain the same, but that's what they were now. The basics.

Even potions had changed, once the Global and United League of Potioneers (aptly abbreviated G.U.L.P) had gotten their heads unstuck from their cauldron bottoms and started educating themselves on things such as the practice of chemistry and the contents of the Periodic Table of Elements. Potions and Transfiguration, Runes and Arithmancy, never mind Healing classes all had elements of the curriculums drawn straight from Muggle chemistry, biology and physics, and microscopes were in vogue in the dungeons as telescopes were in the astronomy tower. 'Muggle' wasn't even really a done word anymore in Wizarding society now that the purebloods had effectively bred themselves out of viable existence; the preferred usage was 'Firstborn' or 'First generation', or in the case of individuals who could draw their lineage from the socially and genealogically disenfranchised (i.e. squibs), 'Reboots'.

They were inside the entry way suddenly, in a huddled mass, and the ghosts were there (Malfoy was pointedly ignoring him, having gone back to his carriage immediately after he'd been cut loose to spend the remainder of the ride trying to get the purple and lavender tones out of his platinum hair), and then..

Harry had always liked Professor McGonagall, but, looking at her now as she'd been when he'd first met her...He'd never appreciated at _any_ point in life how elegant she was. How, frankly, if you were a hundred-thirty-nine looking back over your shoulder and not eleven-and-gormless (or, let's face it, seventeen and gormless, or twenty and gormless... Ginny had had quite the job there) _hot_ she was.

 _I am not going to develop a crush on Minerva McGonagall. I am not going to develop a crush on Minerva McGonagall. I am not..._

He did the mental math quickly, more to distract himself than anything else.

 _Godric. She's fifty six. Half my age minus twenty seven. Well_ done, _Harry. You're a pervert either way._

"Neville!" Hermione hissed, craning her neck as they were ushered into the hall. "Neville, where are you _going?"_

"Trevor's scarpered again," Neville whispered frantically back in a near wail. "I'll never find him if I don't get him now! Hold my place, Harry; I'll be right..."

Then the Sorting Hat began to sing, and Harry became so busy steadfastly ignoring the residents of the High Table (the one in particular; it'd been two years, and he'd gotten more effective practice in Occlumency trying _not_ to think about Severus Snape than his former teacher could possibly, or would possibly, give him credit for) that he tuned himself out of events altogether. All too soon though, he was being ushered forward, and then... there he was. Bum on the stool, Sorting Hat on the head, and nothing between him and Albus Dumbledore's obsessive-compulsive, lemon-scented machinations but the power of a mind that couldn't decide whether it was sitting in the skull of a precocious, pre-pubescent with grandOedipal issues, or a garden-variety dirty old man.

Harry Potter was suddenly terrified.

He had a Plan, yes... And for better or worse, it all stopped, or rather started...

Now.

"If it isn't Sirius Black's new pup," the Sorting Hat said, resigned. "Bred from James Potter and Lily Evans, no less. I don't suppose you're actually inclined to let me advise you?'

"Um. Sorry?' Harry said, Occlumency shields powered at maximum. "You mean I have a choice?"

There was a small pause.

"Let's say you get to cast a vote in the event of a tie and leave it at that," the Sorting Hat said. "In the meantime, and since you're going to make me do this the hard way as we both pretend to ignore that great big oliphaunt sitting in front of that door to your inner sanctum... Do you have any inherent preferences on the subject that I should know about?'

"Not really," Harry said, and it was true. At a hundred thirty seven - thirty nine now, he supposed – he wasn't particularly worried about which pile of school children he roomed with. "Good, bad... It'll all come down to me in the end anyway, won't it?" For a split second, a tinge of the old, never quite forgotten adolescent bitterness broke through, overwhelming his control near entirely. He forced it back ruthlessly, and tried for the chipper. "It's like the muggle saying: blossom where you're planted!"

"Mm." The Hat hummed in a pleased sort of way. "That's more like it. Very Hufflepuff of you Mr. Potter. Or... is it Slytherin?"

It was obviously a test. Harry had to bite back his response. Again, he failed. He thought he'd been prepared for the moment, never mind the impact of the memories come to life in bulk again... For the first time, he felt real sympathy for Snape and his bottomless wells of self-protective snide.

"Slytherpuff? he suggested.

"Don't get smart with me, or..."

"Aaaand... It's... Ravenclaw! The crowd roars!"

The Hat changed tack.

"Young Malfoy's very excited about the prospect of you in green and silver," it said. "And Vinnie and Greg are hoping you'll show them that trick you did with your wand. I wouldn't recommend it to Vinnie at least; no details, but he's feeling rather repressed. It could go either way."

"You're testing my Gryffindor sensibilities there, aren't you? My noble, chivalric, nature? And... You call them Vinnie and _Greg_?'

"Don't change the subject. And if you're going to be like that... Which house would you rather not be in, and get to it. I've still got four of you to go – no five, with Longbottom. Where'd he get to? Only he missed his call, didn't he?'

"He's off looking for his toad again. Get used to it; I think it's going to be a theme. I'd rather avoid Ravenclaw if at all possible," Harry obliged. "They sound harmless enough, but my sources tell me that they can be really cutthroat and intense, and. Um. Kind of mean to people who don't make their grade. Hufflepuff's nice, and right next to the kitchens, but I'll only go if you promise not to sort Zacharias Smith there." Zacharias Smith was one of the few exceptions to Harry's 'pile of school children ' rule; he'd started as an unpleasant boy who'd grown to a thoroughly repulsive, amoral adult. He'd never quite gained the status of 'nemesis', but 'giant chronic bleeding ulcerated hemmorhoid' was fairly and accurately descriptive.

"I can't do that, I'm afraid," the Hat said. "I haven't met him yet. If he's anything like his parents though... There _are_ times I have to sort someone into a House because it's least of all possible bad fits."

"Uh huh. Well, he's a git, and I don't feel like sharing a room with him for seven years. Gryffindor..." He paused. _How to phrase this..._

"Yes?"

"It's just that everybody _expects_ me to go there," he said plaintively. "Because my parents went there, you know? And they do sound like they were really nice, but with everybody going on about how wonderful and heroic they were, and "Oh Harry, you look just like your father but with your mother's eyes', I'm not sure that they really want _me_. I want to go somewhere where _I_ belong, not them."

"I might be able to help you there," the Hat said dryly. "But you've going to have to let me in first."

"No. No, I don't think so. You live in Professor Dumbledore's _office_."

"Do I look like I have little golden wings, Mr. Potter? I am not a _snitch_ , nor am I a spy. I _Sort._ That is all, and I promise you, I have never, nor will I ever, offer explanations on any student's tendencies to _anyone_ without their express permission. Now what about Slytherin?'

"If Professor Snape is the one with the hair and the nose and and the look like he's got a sore tooth that he'd like to bite me with," Harry said. "He's been glaring at me since I came in. It's quite creepy, really. don't suppose you could tell me whether he's likely to lighten up any if I go to his House?'

"Not as long as Remus Lupin is teaching here, or as long as you're living with Sirius Black," the hat said sadly. "Never mind that your hair is exactly the texture of your father's. I'm sure your sources have told you the history _there_."

Harry heaved a sigh. The seconds continued to tick by... Outside the confines of the hat, more than one teacher looked a little nervous.

"Alright then," he said. "I'm just not willing to risk Smith, so...I guess that leaves only the one option."

"You know," the hat said gently. "Just because people expect something of you doesn't mean you have to go along with what they have in mind. A bit of advice that I've given more students than I can recall – most of them, actually. As much as I sense that you really just want to be happy... Hufflepuff won't do that for you. They're..." It paused. " _Persistent_ when they get their minds fixed on the idea that one of their own needs protecting. They'll protect you even from yourself."

"Fine. You know what to do then."

"I suppose I do," the Hat said. "Alright. BETTER BE..."

"Hold up, hold up," Harry said oh-so-casually-and-belatedly. "Before I go... There's something you should know."

"And what would that be?'

"Professor Quirrell is possessed by the spirit of Voldemort."

The pause that followed that revelation stretched out so long that it allowed a new set record for the longest Hat Stall in Hogwart's history.

"Godric bless me," the hat said finally. It sounded most displeased. "So he is. I suppose you'd like me to take care of that? And to refrain from asking any uncomfortable questions on how you knew?'

"Yes please. And thanks," Harry said gratefully. "It's not that I wouldn' t try to take care of things myself, but I _am_ only eleven."

"Very prudent of you. And you were fifteen months old the last time," the Hat pointed out.

"I didn't have anything to do with it the last time. That was all my mother's doing, from what I hear, and I don't have a spare lying around to offer up her life for me this time, do I?'

"No," the hat agreed sadly. "No, You don't. Alright. We've kept everyone on tenterhooks long enough. BETTER BE... GRYFFINDOR!"

"Thank you," Harry said politely as he removed the hat and placed it carefully on the stool.

YOU'RE VERY WELCOME, MR. POTTER. AND MAY I SAY... YOUR MOTHER WOULD BE VERY PROUD OF THE YOUNG MAN SHE SACRIFICED HERSELF TO SAVE? I HAVEN'T HAD SUCH A LOVELY CHAT FOR DECADES.

Harry blushed.

"ALSO," the Hat continued, "YOU HAVE RASPBERRY CHOCOLATE CREAM IN YOUR HAIR. TRY FOR YOUR MOUTH NEXT TIME; I DON'T SHARE PROFESSOR LUPIN'S PARTICULAR OBSESSION. AH THERE'S TREVOR! THAT MEANS YOU'RE BACK, MR. LONGBOTTOM, AND UP. NO, I DON'T KNOW YOUR TOAD. HE MADE QUITE A FEW FRIENDS ON THE TRAIN THOUGH, AND A LASTING IMPRESSION ON NOT A FEW OF YOUR CLASSMATES. UP YOU GET NOW.

Harry made his way to the Gryffindor table amid the raucous hoots and cheers, glancing back over his shoulder with a grin as Neville clambered up carefully. Neville hadn't missed his place last time, he knew, but he was getting used to the myriad of small changes surrounding larger, more stable events. As long as nothing too, too drastic happened, he wasn't going to worry; he'd just enjoy the moments.

The Sorting Hat settled comfortably, murmuring to itself. It opened its brim... Then just as abruptly closed it again.

The seconds drew out to half minutes, the half minutes to minutes... Everyone stirred restlessly. Neville didn't move. Trevor hopped up in his lap and nestled into his arms.

" _Two_ hat stalls," Harry heard one of the twins murmur in excitement. "What do you think..."

"Is there a problem," Professor Dumbledore's pleasant voice rang out at last.

HMM. the hat said absently. "NO, NO; HE'S A GRYFFINDOR, RIGHT ENOUGH, BUT...YES OF COURSE, MR. LONGBOTTOM. ANY TIME. JUST TELL PROFESSOR DUMBLEDORE WE HAVE A STANDING APPOINTMENT. OFF YOU GO NOW.

Neville slid out of the hat and down from the stool.. Harry craned his neck as he approached, settling quietly between Harry and Hermione and staring at the table. His face was wet with tears.

"Blimey," Ron said in an undertone. "You okay, Nev? What was that about?'

"Nothing," Neville said, and wiped his nose on his sleeve. "Well, yes. It was something. I asked it if it knew my parents. They were injured in the war. Tortured into insanity. I don't know anything about them, really. I never will. So I asked the Hat what they were like. Because... Because it's been in their heads. And it would know, wouldn't it? I got..." His voice wobbled a bit. "I got the idea... When it said that bit about Har... Potter's mother."

Before he could say anything more though, the table veritably exploded in food... Suitably distracted, they all (or most of them) turned away.

"That was awfully brave of you," Harry said as Ron's elbow narrowly missed his ear in its attached arm's quest for the platter of chicken drumsticks.

Neville said nothing, just stuffed a roasted potato in his mouth.

"It's Harry," he said to the boy next to him. "Not Potter. Just... Harry."

Neville offered him a tiny smile before turning back to his food... Harry turned to start in on his, when the cherry wand, poking out the sleeve of Nev's robes, made an appearance. Neville took it out and tucked it carefully in his pocket. Harry wrinkled his nose at it, trying to remember something that had caught his attention on the train, then disappeared just as quickly in light of the grape incident.

"Cherry wood," he said. "You sure you've never been to Ollivanders?'

"No," Neville said through a mouthful. "Why?

"Nothing," Harry said, but later, much later, up in Gryffindor tower, when he and Neville were taking their turn in the loo and brushing their teeth, he pushed the door shut, cast a very obvious (and very obviously not first year) silence and warding spell, and turned to the small, chubby boy before him.

"You did get it then," Neville said."I wondered if you would."

"Cherry and unicorn hair," Harry quoted. "The cherry's obvious, innit, but the unicorn hair... I never mentioned that. And _your_ wand's not transparent."

Neville lowered his toothbrush. The little smile grew. It didn't... quite... reach his eyes.

"Can't get anything past you," he said, "Mr. Head of the Auror Department for over your century," and as a fist pounded on the door...

"Oop," he stumbled over and hauled on it breathlessly. The transformation was astonishing. "Sorry. Room of Requirement," he mouthed at Harry behind Seamus' back. "Once they're asleep. Invisibility cloak?'

Harry did, in fact, have his invisibility cloak; Padfoot and Moony had retrieved it from its caretaker, and returned it to him ceremoniously the night before. He nodded, his mind near-exploding. He crawled into his four-poster, heart pumping wildly, and stared up at the canopy.

Across from him, Neville Longbottom did the same.


	7. The Boy with Kaleidoscope Eyes

It took till near one in the morning till Seamus had finally drifted off... Harry propped himself up on his elbow and looked over at the bed opposite. Neville was propped on his pillows, arms tucked behind his head, and turned to look at him at his soft whisper. Harry jerked his head, slipping out of bed and retrieving his invisibility cloak and wand from his cracked-open trunk. By the time he had shoved his feet in his slippers and cast Disillusioners _and_ Notice-Me-Nots on them as accessories to the cloak, Neville was ready, pale round face determined.

"Change," he ordered Harry, again in a whisper as they stepped outside the passage. "I'll meet you there."

"Huh?'

"Don't be stupid. You can fly along the crest of the ceilings, and nobody will see you, with or without the charms. I've got to walk the whole way and I don't want to be tripping over you."

"Alright," Harry obliged, and shifting, darted out from under the cloak and buzzed up to the ceiling. The charms still held, Animagus or not, and once up on the seventh floor, and having confirmed that there was not a soul, living or dead, in sight, he shifted back to boy-form and slipped behind the tapestry to wait. His stomach grumbled loudly; he retrieved the Muggle protein bar he'd slipped in his dressing gown pocket and unwrapped it, scarfing it down and trying to chew quietly. He used considerable energy in any case when transformed into Dash (his hummingbird's name) but burned easily three times as much, twice as fast, when holding spells onto himself simultaneously.

Neville appeared, or rather didn't, in a surprisingly short time... Harry watched as the door in the opposite wall appeared as if out of nowhere, and darted through and in as it opened and closed. Once inside, he collapsed in a cosy chair, even as Neville removed his cloak, tossed it over the second, and went to throw another log on the fire. Harry grinned as he retrieved a bottle and two glasses from the mantelpiece.

"Firewhiskey? I know the room likes you, but how are you getting past Gamp's Third Law?'

"I brought it in and left it here when I graduated," Neville said shortly. "In seventh – well, eighth, year. This is the Head Boy's office. It's just like I remember. No worries, it's got an anti-inebriation spell on it. Flavor only."

He handed Harry a shot and clambered into the second squashy chair, tucking his feet under him. Harry sniffed and sipped, letting his head fall back in pleasure.

"Bugger _me_ ," he said profoundly.

"You`re going to have to watch your mouth now that we`re young again, you know. And... Bend over, and I will," his compatriot returned. "You'll have to settle for the Sword, though since I'm bloody _eleven_.' He nodded to the Sword of Gryffindor, hanging over the fire.

"It's not my fault!" Harry protested. "I only died! Everybody dies! I didn't bring me back here, _or_ you!"

"Do you have any idea what did?'

"No," he admitted. "Not really. I came back on Solstice Night though. December 1989. I figure now there must have been some sort of ritual involved; maybe some sort of last minute prank from that wanker Wencit. You?'

"No clue," Neville said. "All I know was that I was finished. I died the spring after you did, five years to the day after Hannah..." His face spasmed. "And I was ready. Ready, willing, I'd said my goodbyes to my kids and grandkids, and I went to-forest, and..." His face spasmed again.

"We don't have to stay here," Harry said. "You can't have changed since you got back."

"You sure?'

"Of course I'm sure."

The room shifted. They were now on the edge of a huge forest, not an English one, but one of pine and fir and stunted maple. Harry shivered; it was brutally cold, with a crisp caking of ghostly snow everywhere. As if in response, a fur cloak and boots appeared as if out of nowhere... He jammed them on hastily.

"Hang onto my neck," Neville directed. "And don't get ideas, Potter. We still have a lot to talk about, and I'm not at all happy with you, for the record. Death obviously hasn't been good for your common sense, or your Auror instincts."

Harry obeyed, yelping as Neville flung out of his arms, stretched, and exploded in a giant _floof._ His accompanying roar split the night and seemed to rattle the very mountains.

"Bugger me," Harry said breathlessly again. "How come you're not a cub? You're bigger than I ever remember you!"

The gigantic, matte-black northern grizzly bear – twelve feet on its hind legs, and over 140 stone, or 2000 pounds of solid muscle, claw, teeth and feral killer instinct – just loped toward the forest.

 **An hour later**

"Much better," Neville said, resettling into his Head Boy chair. "And to answer your question... TheAnimagus transformation seems to be tied to the age of your magical core, not to the age of your body. Our cores are the same ages as we are, mentally, or we wouldn't be able to cast any of the spells we still do. Didn't you wonder about that?'

"Been a bit busy," Harry excused himself, but then, feeling the bit of an idiot, confessed... "Er. No?"

"What have you wondered about?'

He lifted a shoulder.

"Voldemort," he said. "How to get rid of him with least possible fuss... Other than that... Surviving the Dursleys, and working out how to be happy."

"And have you been?'

"Happy?"

"Mm?'

"The last month's been nice," he said cautiously. "With Remus and Sirius. Before... I woke up back at the Dursleys' , like I weren't so mean to me this time, though, I mostly just cast ..."

"Notice-Me-Nots," Neville nodded. "And popped out as Dash when needed to fill up on flowers, right?'

"Yeah. You?'

"I woke up at the Spring Solstice again," he said. "You'd already cured Remus, and managed to free Sirius. It honestly didn't occur to me at first that you might have returned as well; I thought I was in one of those whaddayacall'ems that the Muggles and Unspeakables go on about, well, that the Muggles go on about, and the Unspeakables don't, except when they do. Parallel universes." His round little shoulders hunched. "I thought... I thought at first... Mum and Dad... Maybe things weren't as bad there as they'd been, or... Or... But when I went with Gran to see them like we always did, the weekend after... They were just the same."

"I'm sorry," Harry said inadequately.

"I'm sorry too," he said bitterly. "Sorry they didn 't die. That the Lestranges and Crouch didn`t kill them straight up. Now, I get to wait another fifty seven years after finally, finally seeing them at peace, every damned week, knowing that nothing can be done, nothing will be done, that..." He choked on it. "Gran. The first time. She always said 'Don't give up, Neville. There's always hope.`` And I hung onto that. Always. It kept me going. Well, I know better than her now. I know there's none. I know. And that's what I have to live through all bloody damned over again." He laughed a bit hysterically. "Bellatrix Lestrange couldn't have hit me with a worse curse if she'd tried, Harry. Not if she'd _tried_."

They were silent. Harry pulled his knees closer to himself, trying to digest the horror of what he'd just heard. He couldn't even begin to manage it.

"I'm sorry," he said. Then... "Maybe we can find a way back, maybe..."

"There is no way back," Neville said flatly "There's no back to _go_ to, not for us. We lived out our natural lifespans. Everything we had to do... Is done. Everything's complete. Nothing cut off, nothing unfinished... Our season's over. I don't know what happened, or why, but whatever did, and whatever the reason... We're here. Eleven again, no wives, no kids, no grandkids, no... Nothing."

"Nothing but what we make," Harry corrected. "If we can get rid of Voldemort sooner this time..."

"There isn't a this time'," Neville knocked back his drink. "It's not _about_ time. It is... What it is. Just because things started off the same way here, doesn't mean... And you've already ruined everything anyway!"

"What?' Harry said blankly. "How'd I do that?'

"Hello? Pettigrew? Sirius? You do remember fourth year, don't you, when Voldy returned? I don't suppose you remember who helped him do that? Who was waiting for you when you and Diggory were transported to that graveyard?'

It took a moment for that to process – then to process the likelihood that it _had_ already processed, and had from the beginning, and that he'd been in such complete self-centred denial that he'd refused to allow himself to see what freeing Sirius early would do.

The shame that he'd felt on the train returned tenfold.

"If Pettigrew doesn't rescue him," Neville continued. "Who will? Someone else? No one at all? We're in completely uncharted waters here, Harry. If we're careful, maybe, maybe... We can predict what will happen up to the end of second year, before the first Sirius saw Scabbers in that newspaper article. After that, though..."

Harry thought rapidly. He set his own shot glass down with a decisive thud.

"We can do this," he said. "We can. Seven horcruxes- five now, including me, and we know now that I won't actually kick it when I get AKed, I'll come back if I want to, without the extra scaley bits – We know where they are. We know how to find them, and how to get rid of them before the decisive break in the events line occurs. We just need a plan."

"Oh well," Neville said ironically."Plans we can come up with. Plot twists... Those are right out of our control, aren't they? Never mind the fact that I'm still _mad_ at you! Whatever ritual or curse you got caught up in, it had to be aimed _at_ you! Everybody _liked_ me!"

"Aw, come on Nev," Harry coaxed, "Don't be like that. And look on the bright side!"

"The bright side?'

"Yeah. Just think of the school reports you'll be able to send home to your Gran!"

"Uh," Nev said, and then, dubiously... "Hermione won't be top of our year anymore. She's really, _really_ not going to like that."

"She's a great girl," Harry said bracingly. "She is. She could do with a bit of squashing though, let's be honest, at this point anyway."

"What about Ron?'

He paused at that. It broke his heart to say it, but...

"We can still be friends," he said slowly. "But he's not my Ron. And if we don't go through the things we did together... He never will be. I don't like it... But if people will live instead... He trailed off. Neville reached over and patted his shoulder.

"He probably wouldn't be anyway, now," he said. "If we're honest. He was always an awful git about poofters, and you're living with Sirius and Remus now. You know he's dazzled by you now, but as soon as we take a History lesson, or he sees Sirius visiting with you two, you know what will happen."

Sadly, Harry did. He sighed.

"I don't know what his problem is," he said. "Honestly, it's stupid. Nobody in his family has that kind of prejudice."

Neville laughed outright.

"You're not just an old man," he said, amused. "You're a stupid old man. Never figured it out, did you? Hannah said you must've, it was dead obvious after you and Ginny got married and specially when she said she was having James, but..."

"What are you going on about?'

"Ron is a poofter, Harry," he said, and at the dropped jaw... "Well. Bi, anyway, at least, though I have my doubts. You weren't a girl, you wouldn't have heard, but all those hen's nights with Ginny and Lav and Suze and Hannah and Hermione... Hermione wasn't ever actually uncomplimentary, but that's because it would have reflected badly on her. Believe you me, though, it wasn't hard for Hannah to read through the lines. It`s why she broke up with Ernie _and_ Justin, after all." He sighed in reminiscence. `When I think of the tourney she put _me_ through to prove I was straight...``

"Good God," Harry mumbled. "Ron. Gay." He brightened and sat up. "Think we could lead him to the path of self-acceptance? There's got to be some nice boy in Hogwarts that we could set him up with!"

"Not in our year," Neville said. "Well, Seamus, but Seamus is ... Seamus. Not exactly long-term material, no matter who he shags. I think we should settle on saving the world before we pair off our friends. If only so we know who'll be left."

"Merlin's balls, Longbottom!" Harry was aghast. "Morbid, much?'

"Practical, more like," Neville said. "Be a bit much, wouldn't it, to get through all this without a single casualty?'

"It's not going to happen," Harry agreed sadly. "But then again..." he brightened once more. "Another positive! Molly Weasley totally cock-blocked you last time, mate, when it came to Bellatrix! She's still alive now; you'll get another go!"

Neville looked massively guilty... He stared.

"Neville," he said. "What did you do?'

"Not much," he mumbled. The words that followed were mumbled again, but yet distinct.

"You... WHAT?"

He sighed.

"I gave Gran a three day Somnolia potion when I got back," he confessed. "And apparated to the coast, and Notice-Me-Notted myself onto the barge to Azkaban, and well. Snuck into see her, and into her cell. We had a nice little talk, and I. Um. May have transformed into Beorn and chewed her wand-hand off."

"WHAT?"

"I didn't kill her!" he protested. "But I was upset! I'd just seen my parents for the first time, and..." He wilted. "I'm sorry."

"No, you're not. You chewed her _wand-arm_ off?'

"Hand. _And_ her secondary."

"She only had two! And nobody noticed? Why wasn't it in the papers?'

"I'm sure they did notice, but nobody cares, there. They don't, unless someone actually dies."

"Uh huh. Did you on chew anyone else while you were there?'

"No. It took me a month to get the taste out of my mouth as it was."

"Oh. Well..." Harry tried to think of anything bad that might come out of literally disarming Bellatrix Lestrange, and failed utterly. "Anything else?'

"I might have saved Pandora Lovegood's life," he confessed.

"Huh? Who?'

"Pandora Lovegood. Luna's mum? I sent Luna a letter telling her I was one of the Spirits of Beyond, and that the day her mum would have died was an inauspicious day for experimenting with new charms. She wrote me back, and asked me who I was, and I said nobody important, just a minor member of the fey court who had a habit of listening in on my betters when I wasn't supposed to, but that I'd heard this omen, and seen the possible results in the Booke of Omenes, and that she might want to convince her parents to go camping that weekend or something. And she did, and now Mrs. Lovegood is Professor Lovegood, well, semi-Professor Lovegood, and is working with Professor Flitwick with OWL and NEWT Charms students who want to go into Research and Development. Weren't you paying attention at dinner?'

"You wrote..." Harry flopped back and roared. Neville grinned sheepishly.

"You might have a saving people thing," he said. "But as it turns out I do too. You're just lucky that the company that owns and produces Mr. Smiley Enviro-Fluid hasn't changed the recipe there in over a hundred forty years."

"Even if they had, it wouldn't have mattered," Harry said. "My grandfather, Fleamont Potter, invented it. He was a big Muggle supporter, particularly when it came to their money, and branched out from Sleakeazy's and Pepper-Up and Skelegro into their wider markets early on. He just didn't tell anybody – but he left the formulas for everything his front-men changed over time in our main vault, every time they did change. I did check before I spiked Remus's fruitcake and sent it through the post."

"You spiked..."

"Mm." Harry confirmed. "Added a bit of a compulsion charm to counter the 'don't take candy from anonymous post-owls' effect, and there it was."

"Huh," Neville said. "D'you think that would work with Fenrir Greyback?"

The two boys sat before the fire and stared at each other. Neville leaned over and refilled their shot glasses.

"Alright," he said. "I forgive you."

"For what?'

Neville waved a plump hand. "Whatever I was mad at you for," he said. Then, fervently... " _Blimey,_ I'm glad it's you. I wasn't sure, you know? Not... I mean, I was pretty sure, all the major changes made that I saw in the Prophet had to do with things that would have made your life personally better, but still. I wasn`t really sure, not till the loo. It would have been _horrid_ if it wasn't you."

"Neville, old man,`Harry said solemnly. `I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship..."


	8. Cellophane Flowers

"This," Professor Remus Lupin said to Professor Pandora Lovegood as they settled in at the breakfast table the next morning, "has to mark the first time that a DADA professor got taken out before he ever taught a single class. Did Albus try to hit you up for the job too?"

"First thing," the statuesque blonde woman confirmed. "And I barely scraped an A on my NEWT there. I told him that I'm far too young to die. And... Too?"

"He tried, but I have an iron-clad contract." The ex-were dished himself up some porridge. "There's no way I'm going on official book there, and he knows it. How is Luna coping with your absence? Good morning, Severus!"

Severus Snape grunted and seated himself, reaching for the tea... It was a shame, Harry reflected as he looked over his seat at the Gryffindor table and up from his huge plate of layered bacon, egg, sausage, tomato and fried potatoes, that the infamous potions professor' students had never processed that the man simply not a morning person... A little understanding and sympathy there might have made everyone's life a little more tolerable. He slurped his black-as-sin-coffee-disguised-handily-as-pumpkin-juice as emphatic punctuation to the thought. Beside him, Neville hummed to himself as he diced a green apple neatly, sprinkled it over his raw oats, and stirred in a huge dollop of vanilla yogurt with cinnamon.

"I don't remember there ever being fruit on the table here before," Katie Bell said as she seated herself. "What's with that?"

"I left a note out for the house-elves." Neville sipped his own coffee-disguised-as-orange-juice. "On my bedside table, and asked them to put out some healthy stuff. I'm trying to get in shape."

"Stairs'll do that for you," Fred Weasley boomed as he slapped him so hard on the back that he nearly fell into his bowl. "Good _mooooorning_ , ickle firsties! Welcome to Hogwarts again, and did you hear the news? The thought of teaching the lot of you has driven off a professor already, and you're not even attended your first class yet! Good job!"

'Huh?" Harry said around a mouthful of wadded buttered toast and marmalade. "Wha?'

"Quirrell's out," George confirmed as he poured himself pumpkin juice. "Our sources confirmed the story less than fifteen minutes ago: a whole pack of Unspeakables and Aurors grabbed him while he was sleeping, and hauled him off to exorcise him. Story is he picked up a really foul case of parasites while he was in Albania. Stay tuned for more details; if they're out there, we'll find 'em!"

"Parasites," Ron repeated.

"He was possessed, Ron," Percy said briskly as he too settled in. "Unfortunate, but these things are an occupational hazard in his field. He should have stuck to Muggle Studies; the worst thing that they get infected with is untoward and easily monitored fits of imagination. Pass the crumpets, Granger. Ah, thank you." His hand paused mid-transaction as he saw Harry's plate. "Good heavens, Potter. What _are_ you eating?'

"Breakfast," Harry said, after he'd swallowed. An unnaturally hearty appetite, he reasoned, was no excuse for bad table manners, and for a moment, regretted his decision not to befriend Ron, at least not immediately... It was a lesson that, as a father and grandfather, he might have proved far more effective at enforcing than the first time around. "What've we got first thing, Nev?'

"Transfiguration," Neville said, consulting his timetable. "And Charms after."

"Excellent," Percy said. "It'll be matchsticks to needles then, won't it, and feathers."

"If you say so," Harry said politely, and exchanged covert grins with his new partner-in-crime. Even as he did so, his pocket buzzed. "Oop Hang on. Godfather incoming." He dug in his robe pocket. "Sirius!"

"Pup!" Sirius Black cried. "You're awake!"

"Course I'm awake," Harry said. "I've got classes. Why are you awake?"

"Early mail call from Dumbledore. Bloody pheonix nearly pecked my eyes out. Details later. You're awake because you've got _classes_? Words I never thought to hear from a Potter. You definitely take after your mother. Mm." The face in the mirror tried to peer around the corner. "Is that bacon I see?"

"No," he said. "That's Ron." He popped in a bite of sausage. "Transfiguration first thing; any hints?'

"The red end of the matchstick sets things on fire when you duel with them," Sirius obliged. "Watch your fingers. Also, if you do feathers, remember it's Wing-GAR-dium Lev-i-OH sa, not Wing-GAR-dium Lev-i-oh-SAH. I can still hear your mother lecturing me on that one after all these years."

"I think I've got the feathers down anyway," Harry said dryly. "Thanks, Padfoot. Go de-gnome the garden or write Uncle Moony a love-letter or something. He's getting chatted up by Professor Lovegood, and he looks like he likes it."

"Moony?' one of the twins said, goggle-eyed. "Padfoot? _What_?'

"He and Pan are good friends," Sirius conceded. "Even had a date or two back in the day, I think, but in the end, it just couldn't work out. Obviously. Anyway, her daughter starts at Hogwarts next year: she's a cutie. Bit of a wild imagination, but a real doll. We'll have to have them all over some time. Maybe on the weekend; you know you're coming home on Saturday nights now, don't you, and staying till Sunday tea?'

"Yeah," Harry said. "Absolutely. Um. Sirius?'

"Yeah?'

"Could I bring a friend sometimes?" He caught Ron's hopeful look and, ignoring the pang in his gut, quashed it gently, but firmly. "Only there's another boy here, he's got no brothers and sisters either, and he lives with his Gran, and we really got on on the train. He matched my cherry wand when I dropped it and he picked it up, so I sold it to him. Anyway, he's really nice, and..."

"Whoa, whoa!" Sirius cut him off. "You gave him one of your _wands_?'

"No. I sold it to him. He said his Gran wouldn't like it; she wanted him to use his father's wand; he was a great war hero, along with his mum, but I told him that everyone needs a backup, and as Aurors, his dad and mum would have agreed. So he gave me five galleons to make it official, from his own pocket money that he earned doing gardens, and we talked about that too, because he knows a whole lot, and I always did the garden at the Dursleys, so..."

"Breathe," Sirius ordered. "Does this friend of yours have a name?'

"Neville," he obliged. "Neville Longbottom."

There was a pause.

"Ah." It sounded a bit uncertain. "Well... Sure, Harry. Your friends are always welcome. Let me talk to Moony, okay, and we'll get in touch with Mrs. Longbottom in the next couple of days."

"Okay," Harry bagged another fried egg and stuffed it into a roll with bacon. "I gotta go, Sirius. People here are waving at me like they're going to explode if I don't. I'll talk to you later, okay? I love you."

"I love you too, pup," Sirius said. As soon as he'd signed off, Remus appeared beside him, resplendent in his new black teacher's robes, neat grey suit and scarlet waistcoat.. More than one student swooned.

"Give it here, Harry." He held out his hand.

"What?' But..."

"You can have it back after classes, as long as you return it to me at breakfast every morning. You'll get into enough trouble, I reckon, without His Nibs' help."

"I just like to talk to him," Harry said, reluctantly handing over the mirror.

"I know you do." He tweaked his ear. "I do too. Lunch in my office, alright? One o' clock."

"Okay. Um. Uncle... Professor Lupin?' he called. Remus turned. "This is Neville. Neville Longbottom."

'You don't say," Remus examined the boy before him. "I hear you're the one responsible for the fruit?'

"Y-yes," Neville stammered. "Is that... Was that wrong?'

"Heavens no," the ex-were said amiably. "I enjoy that sort of thing a lot more myself now, now that I've officially lost my taste for blood and guts and gore."

"Uncle Remus!"

Remus winked at him. "Just joking," he said, and his face sobered. "Here's a lesson for all of you; you never do get a taste for that sort of thing, no matter how long you've been a werewolf. No matter what anybody tells you. That's part of the curse."

"Only it's not like that for everyone who's bitten, is it?" Hermione ventured. "What about people like that Fenrir Greyback?'

"Fenrir Greyback wasn't a person to start off with," Remus returned. "Not where it counts, Miss..."

"Granger. Hermione Granger."

"Granger. In Muggle terms... He was a medically confirmed psychopath long before he was ever bitten; one who liked to dabble in things best left alone, never mind his rancid little hobbies as concerns Muggles again, and he deliberately allowed himself to be attacked so he could further his own agendas."

"Things best left..." Hermione's eyes widened. "You mean... The Dark Arts?'

"They change you," Remus corroborated soberly again, looking around the table. "Lesson number two. The Dark Arts _change_ you. I won't be teaching you till next year... But remember that, every year, no matter who does. The face in the mirror may never change, but where it really counts... Your own mothers wouldn't recognize you. They wouldn't _want_ to."

He wandered off, tucking the mirror in his pocket. Fred and George immediately pounced.

"Padfoot?" They demanded in chorus. " _Moony?_ Where did you hear those names and why are they attached to people you know?'

"We need to get going, Harry," Neville said, swallowing the last of his juice and tucking a napkinful of roasted chestnuts in his pocket. "We're going to be late."

"Right, right." He grabbed his own bag. Ron still looked more than a little mopey as he watched them go.

"Don't I feel like a right shite," Harry mumbled as they headed toward the stairs.

"I know," Nev said. "Me too. So. Quirrell?'

"Sorting Hat," Harry said. "It's not like my meeting with him at the end of this year was a crucial turning point. It was strictly situational confirmation and information-gathering, and now I won't have to kill an innocent man with my bare hands. That was dead traumatizing, you know? I've never got over it."

Neville sighed. "I get that," he said. "It just... complicates things."

"Ten to one he'll be back," Harry predicted. "He'll get away from the Aurors; this lot except for Moody couldn't find their asses with the Marauder's Map, and then he'll come looking for the Stone again. One way or another, he'll be there waiting for us at the end of the year; it's just a question of who he'll be inhabiting."

"We'll keep an ear out for missing Aurors then," Nev said. "Or Unspeakables."

They entered the Transfiguration classroom in good time, and settled themselves at a desk halfway back. The rest of the class trickled in slowly, Ron seating himself glumly beside Seamus. The two reborn wizards cast covert grins at each other, and turned their attention to the front as McGonagall began with her traditional dire warnings on her subject. Several pages of complicated notes later, she passed out the matchsticks. Harry examined his carefully.

"You ever seen one of these before?' he asked Neville brightly. Neville gave him a sour, amused look... "Never mind. Okay. Needles. Sharp, silver, pointy..." He waved his wand with a flourish. Neville peered over his shoulder at the results.

"That looks easy enough," he conceded, and mimicked his movements and incantation. They sat patiently waiting for McGonagall to come around as everyone sweated and frowned and waved around them.

"Now, now, Potter," she said, approaching. "Don't just sit there and stare at it. Longbottom, you must at least try; I read that letter from your grandmother, but really, I think..." She stopped in her tracks and stared down at the desk. Two perfectly matched, glistening silver needles twinkled up at her. "How..."

"We just did the movement and said the word," Harry said innocently. "Like you said to, Professor."

She glared at him suspiciously, as if he might have dared to swap the matchsticks when she wasn't looking, and waving her own wand, switched them back.

"Again," she ordered. "You first, Longbottom."

Neville obliged. Harry followed. She stared again, adjusting her glasses on the tip of her nose.

"Well," she said. And then, flustered... "Well. Excellent work, boys. Five points each to Gryffindor."

She offered them a rare, but puzzled smile. Behind them, they could hear Hermione hissing in anger through her teeth.

"How did you do that?' she demanded of them. "You _cheated_ ; I know you did, you can't possibly have got it on the first go!"

"Miss Granger!" Professor McGonagall snapped. "That is _enough_! I stood there and watched them perform the perfect transfigurations myself, are you saying that they got one past me?'

"No, Professor, I'm... I'm sorry, I..."

"Eyes on your own work. Mr. Malfoy! What do you think you're playing at? Mr. Finnegan, stop that at once!"

"Professor McGonagall?' Harry said meekly as Neville poked idly at his needle with his wand, turning it back and forth so rapidly it twisted around itself in confusion and ended up with its point through its own eye. "What should Nev and me do now?"

"Nev and _I_ ," Hermione corrected loftily.

"Two points, Miss Granger," Professor McGonagall snapped again, and as Hermione beamed... _"From_ Gryffindor. Concentrate, please!" she returned to Harry's desk and held out her hand. "May I see your wand, Mr. Potter?'

He handed it over dutifully. She examined it carefully from every angle.

"Amber," she murmured. "Interesting. Most unusual. Does the core always flare when you're trying a spell?'

"I don't know," he said. "I haven't actually tried that many yet, Professor."

"Keep me posted," she said, and handed it back. "Certain wand woods do lend themselves well to transfiguration – your father's was mahogany; a well-known example – but I simply don't have enough experience with amber to be able to tell you whether yours is one of them. Did Mr. Ollivander say anything in particular on the subject?'

"No," Harry said. "He just said that Hungarian Horntails have really bad tempers, and that the witches and wizards chosen by them tend to be like that too."

"I see." She looked down her nose at him, crossing her arms. "We're not going to have a problem with that little issue of yours in my classroom, are we Mr. Potter?"

"No, Professor," he squeaked. He was, just at that moment, devoutly glad she could not tell what he was thinking... Neville bit his lips so hard in stifled amusement that they nearly bled. She turned her attention to him and held out her hand. He put his wand in it immediately.

"Lovely," she said approvingly. "Your grandmother changed her mind on your match after all?'

"N-not exactly," Neville said. "I bought it from Harry. It um. Was his back-up, and it liked him alright, but it. Er."

"Went a little mental when it met Nev," Harry supplied. "In a good way. I think it would have snapped itself in two if I'd insisted it leave him, Professor, really. I didn't want to be responsible for that. "

"Of course you didn't," she said. "Very well. Since you've mastered this particular assignment so easily... Try this one." She waved her own wand. The matchstick turned into a fountain pen. "Examine the pen closely, and try not just to change the shape once you've got that down, but the details as well."

Behind them, Hermione gasped in outrage. "That's second year work, that is!" she protested loudly. "That's not fair! Professor, I think there's something wrong with my matchstick!"

"Damn," Neville murmured. "I'd forgotten how plain _annoying_ she was before she almost got mashed by that troll. Maybe we should just let that one pass, so she'll get the lesson?'

"Don't tempt me," Harry mumbled back, and picked up the pen. "Alright. Let's see what we've got here." Even as he raised his wand again, a huge clamor rose out in the hall, and a very familiar, very furious voice.

"YOU SIGNED IT?' Remus Lupin roared. "YOU ACTUALLY SIGNED IT? Without talking to me FIRST?"

"I wasn't awake yet!" another familiar voice protested. "And the phoenix was being mean! It kept poking at me, and flapping at me, and crooning at me, and I just wanted to go back to sleep!"

"SO YOU SIGNED IT? A BLOODY CONTRACT, FOR THE BLOODY DADA POSITION, JUST LIKE THAT, WITHOUT TALKING OR CONSULTING WITH ME OR EVEN READING THE DAMNED THING, AFTER EVERYTHING YOUPUT ME THROUGH BEFORE YOU'D QUOTE-UNQUOTE ALLOW ME TO WORK HERE MYSELF? YOU STUPID, STUPID, BRAINLESS..." There was a decided sputter. " _MUTT_!"

Harry's jaw dropped. Neville lowered his own wand gently.

"Oh dear," he murmured. "This could definitely complicate things."

"I know, Moony, but look on the bright side," Sirius pleaded desperately from the hall way. "I'll be here all the time! At Hogwarts! With you and Harry, and I'll be really, really careful, I swear, and the curse has already got its victim for the year besides, it sounds like, and maybe it'll decide that the ten years in Azkaban was punishment enough insofar as I'm concerned, and treat it...as..." His voice trailed off. "Retroactive payment?' That last was very, very tiny and hopeful. "Um. Would it help any if I told you that I've decided –independently, I promise, and I swear I'm not just saying it to get out of trouble - to accept your proposal?"

The room was dead quiet. Every student looked wide-eyed in Harry's direction.

"Proposal?' Ron Weasley said loudly. "But... They're both men!"

"Well spotted, Mr. Weasley," Professor McGonagall said, rather acidly. "What gave you the clue, the great roaring flame emanating from your matchstick?'

"Wha..." Ron looked down and squawked in panic even as Neville buried his face suddenly in his robe sleeves and shook violently with laughter, pretending to sneeze violently. Harry poked him hard.

"Shut up," he muttered. "It's only the first class, man, and we've still got the poofy dancing feathers to go ..."


	9. Of Yellow and Green

**Professor Lupin's Office**

 **12:45 pm**

"Alright." Remus shuffled papers neatly, examining one last paragraph one last time. "Alright. It's not as bad as it could be, I suppose. I have no idea what he was thinking on offering _you_ , of all people, the Headship of Gryffindor House –"

"It's a joint position," Sirius offered hopefully. "Or could be, the way he's defined it there. 'Single or established couple', see, and we're very established. Very, _very_ established. And that hearth-rug in front of the common-room fire is very comfy; McWolf will love it."

"Second person is fine, Sirius." He sighed and sat back in his chair. "I hate him, I really do."

"Who, McWolf?"

"No. Drink your coffee. It'll help, really. Dumbledore. You know he offered me the Headship and I declined; well, what the hell am I supposed to do now that _you've_ accepted? I can't leave the defacto guardianship of all of those poor children to you; Gryffindor Tower would fall in a month!"

"I'm not that bad!" Sirius protested. "And I'm Harry's guardian, and I'm doing fine there!" He looked momentarily insecure. "I _am_ doing fine there, aren't I?'

"Yes, of course you are," Remus patted his hand. "The fact remains though, and after observing him for the last month, it rather disturbs me how little raising he seems to need. I know you had your own version of the atypical childhood, so you may not be fully aware, but Harry isn't exactly a normal child, Sirius."

"What's _that_ supposed to mean? I know he's a bit, whaddidyoucallit, unprecedented with the Animagus thing, but…"

"Him being an Animagus is the least of it really. To be honest, I'm not sure _what_ it means. I do know, though, that your average eleven year old simply isn't as proficient as he is. At anything. He cooks, he cleans, he budgets, he gets our jokes… " He waved off the predictable wide smirk. "Alright, we're not terribly discreet at times, but a boy his age simply shouldn't have the life context to get the subtlety of mine, at least. The potential implications there…"

The smirk disappeared as if Vanished. Sirius Black's face darkened, and he lowered his coffee cup.

"You're not saying…"

"No," Remus said immediately. "I'm not. There would be other signs there, other indications, and he's got none of them." He hesitated a long moment. "That being said… I asked Snape to double check for us there in Potions class tomorrow."

"YOU _WHAT?"_

"You heard me. I'm _worried,_ Sirius! You've met Petunia and Vernon, even if it was years ago, and from the look and sound of it, especially as pertains to what Harry hasn't said to us… They haven't changed a bit. I want to know what's been going on there, and frankly, after sharing my suspicions with him… So does Severus. He's a great git, but you _know_ how he feels about child abuse."

"What, that it builds character?'

"Knock it off." The ex-were's voice was sharp again. "I know you two have your issues, but this isn't about you. You know damned well, as well as I do, that if Harry'd been sorted into Slytherin, he'd be down in the hospital wing having his checkup before he'd had a chance to take the Hat off his head." He raised his hand, cutting him off. "Yes, he looks healthy enough now, but he's still too damned small, and he's gained the stone that makes him look on the paltry side rather than outright starved in the last four weeks since we met him. Severus might not comment on those things, but that doesn't mean he doesn't take note of them when he sees them. Say what you will about his personality or loyalties, but he takes his job as Head of Slytherin seriously, even if he's a crap teacher, and he has never, and would never, just sit _back_ if one of his snakes were in that kind of trouble."

Sirius slouched.

"Did he say anything to you?' he asked. "Before you asked him to check?'

"Yes. He seems to have set aside the fact that he's James' son in light of the fact that we're now the ones raising him. One more thing to hate us for, I suspect, and to criticize us for, and he can't exactly do that effectively while hating on the child, can he?"

"So what does he have in mind?'

"A bit of Legilimency. Nothing profound or illegal," he hastened at Sirius' Look. "Certainly nothing more than a mind healer would do if suspicious on an unforthcoming minor in his or her care. We have responsibilities, Sirius, and frankly, I'd rather Snape proxy for us there than Dumbledore."

"What? Why?"

"Dumbledore's the one discouraging our suit for custody, for one thing," Remus said dryly. "He wants him to go back to the Dursleys. For whatever reason, he's stuck on the idea, and that being said…" He took the quill and co-signed the contract. "There. Now you're a lot less likely to bollocks things up."

"You don't actually think he wants me to bollocks it up, do you?'

"The more letter of complaints he gets from parents," Remus said. "The more of a body of evidence he has to present to your unsuitability as guardian at the hearing in November. Even if he isn't consciously intending the results… He _would_ use them if they presented themselves." He frowned slightly. "Then there's the issue of the Granger girl and the Weasley boy."

"Huh?'

"You saw them on the train, when they chatted with us through the mirrors. They were having a blast. Frankly, it reminded me of us, when we first met … It was as if they'd known each other their whole lives. This morning at breakfast though… He wasn't being mean, Harry, that is… But he _was_ deliberately shutting them out, and when he left the table, it was as if he was making the point of leaving with Longbottom alone.'

"He's a kid," Sirius said, unconvinced. "Kids blow hot and cold. And they're thoughtless little buggers at the best of times, yeah?"

"Yes and no, but… There's more to it than that. I know it." He sighed in frustration. "His body language… It wasn't thoughtless, it was deliberate. And I hate to say it… Deliberately hurtful. He was trying to push them away, Siri. I didn't just see it, I smelled it. I may not be a wolf anymore, but I can still detect an effective shunning-of-pack when it's happening."

Sirius tugged at his hair.

"You're saying…" He hesitated. "You think he's. I dunno. Isolating himself? Deliberately, as a response to habitual emotional neglect and abuse? And only letting in Longbottom because they have the lack of family in common, and the enforced social isolation and whatnot?' He caught the peculiar look. "What? My Mind Healers are good for something, and I'm all _over_ the results of lack of family and enforced isolation. I may be mildly crazy yet, Rem, but I'm not _stupid_."

"We can't discount it," Remus said. "The deliberate self isolation, not your stupid." He picked up the contract and put it down again. "Maybe this is for the best, no matter what Dumbledore had, or has, in mind. That Animagus form of his alone worries me; it's just too small and sneaky. Can you even begin to imagine the trouble James would have gotten into if he'd been anything other than the biggest bloody land animal in Great Britain?'

"Oh well," Sirius laughed softly. "He's got his tells – I don't know if you noticed his plate this morning, but it was stacked eight inches high, and he went through all of it."

"Mm?"

"Spending time as a hummingbird burns through his resources," the boy's godfather explained. "And he has to refuel. He went on a little jaunt last night – quite an extensive one, if he was eating that much after a feast the night before – and with no access to a garden or a ready supply of nectar, his breakfast gave him away."

"You noticed that?'

"Of course I noticed that. I was effectively starved for ten years, Moony. I notice everything about food now."

"Oh, Padfoot." Lupin's eyes softened, and he got up and came around the desk, putting his arms around the man and pressing his lips to his hair... Sirius tilted his head back for a kiss.

"We're both free men now," he said, and then, hopefully…. "Does this mean you forgive me for signing after all?"

"As I said, it's not as bad as it could be," Remus conceded. "Head of Gryffindor House, and an agreement to consult with students on the Other Subject as needed, in as formal or informal an environment as the situation demands… "

"So I don't get to watch you sever Dumbles' sequins after all?'

"Not unless you die on the job. If that happens, I'll hire Severus to summon you back from the grave just so you can watch, I promise."

"Yay!"

They kissed again… A soft knock sounded at the door, and a head of spiky, tousled black hair and a pair of bright green bespectacled eyes peered around.

"Is it safe?' Harry asked brightly. "Only you were kind of loud in the hall outside Transfiguration this morning, and then there's been Ron ever since."

"Mm?" Remus inquired as lips popped.

"He doesn't clap for fairies."

"Huh?" Sirius looked confused. "What are you going on about?'

"Literary reference. Peter Pan? Tinkerbell? The Lost Boys? Captain Hook?'

"If you're referencing a Muggle book, you've got me at an inherent disadvantage there, pup, and if you're not… The library at Azkaban really isn't all that."

"I'll owl-order a copy," his godson promised. "You'll love it."

"I'm sure I will. Ron?'

"He likes boys," Harry translated. "And doesn't like the idea, and is going to project on you. He already is."

"Oh," Remus said in dismay. "Oh dear. The poor thing. Are you sure, cub?'

"Pretty sure, yeah. Nev is, anyway. And I think Professor McGonagall might think so too. She made a really funny joke about his great flaming matchstick this morning." He entered the office and perched himself on a stool, helping himself to a ham and cheese sandwich from the plate on the desk. "Brilliant," he said around a mouthful. "M' starving."

"Mm," Remus returned to his seat and took a sandwich half for himself. "Now that we're on the subject… Where, exactly, did you decide to _dash_ off to after hours last night, young man?'

"Huh?" Harry stopped chewing abruptly. Sirius barked a laugh at his trapped expression.

"We weren't born yesterday, pup," he said kindly. "We know you've been used to kiting around on your effective own for years now; Vernon and Petunia aren't exactly stellar human beings, and I can't imagine they'd be doting parents, but you've got us to deal with now – in house yet, and now that we're Gryffindor's co-heads, really in-House – and you're just going to have to resign yourself to be raised properly. Now's as good a time as any to let you know that we'll be putting anti-underage-animagus charms on every one of the doors and windows and fireplaces of the Tower."

"We are?" Remus said. "When did we decide this?'

"Right after we decided to install the weekday anti-lethifold charms," Sirius said blithely. "The Invisibility Cloak is made of lethifold skin, James told me once, and…"

"You gave me that cloak!" Harry protested. "And now you're not going to let me use it?'

"Sure we will. On the weekends." He caught the look and sighed. "Come on, pup. Try to see this from our point of view, okay? We have contracts to fulfill, and responsibilities, and the final hearing isn't till November. I promise we'll lighten up on the overbearing-parent thing after we have full custody of you, but till then, a little cooperation and understanding would be most appreciated?'

Harry grumbled, but in the end, settled with his sandwiches, legs swinging, and blathered on enthusiastically about his morning… Remus couldn't help but smile softly as he watched the two people he loved most laugh and talk animatedly, in between huge bites and laughing fits.

 _This could work_ , he thought. _This could… Really, really work._

"So you're actually going to be living in Gryffindor Tower?' Harry was asking. "Together?'

"Well… We're engaged now," Sirius said, self-consciously and cautiously. "You probably heard that in the hallway too… So… Yes. "

"I heard," Harry said, and promptly made wet smooch kissing sounds that forced him off his stool with the force of his own mocked gagging and giggles. "We aaaalll heard. They could probably hear you slobbering and snogging up in the Astronomy tower."

"Charming, Harry," Remus said, amused. "Speaking of which… Don't you have Charms soon?'

"Do I… Oop." He scrambled up and grabbed his bag. "I do. Gotta run. See you later!"

He bolted off at full speed down the hall… The two men could almost swear they heard his heels humming and buzzing.

"That went better than I expected," Sirius said hopefully.

"You are aware that anti-lethifold charms only work on live lethifolds, aren't you?" Remus asked. "It'll only take him one test of the wards to figure out that one, and there's nothing preventing him from transforming outside the portrait hole."

"Maybe he won't test them?' Sirius suggested. "Lily wouldn't have. She was all over the law-abiding at that age."

Remus just rolled his eyes at him, and poured himself more tea from the pot.


	10. Towering Over Your Head

The letter came at breakfast, clutched in the talons of a stately, somewhat dusty-looking screech owl. Neville Longbottom detached it carefully, exchanging it for a rasher of bacon from the communal platter, and patted the bleary-looking creature on the head before it flew off, hooting hollowly around her full beak.

"W'choo got there, mate?' Ron asked, his own mouth full.

"Letter from my Gran," Neville examined it from all angles before sliding a neat finger under the flap. "I wrote her yesterday and told her where I was sorted, and about my new wand. She probably just wants to…" His voice trailed off as he scanned the words before him, his face going an odd, mottled milky color.

"Alright there, Nev?' Harry asked as he smeared jam on his toast, but he was distracted by the plethora of feather everywhere, and wasn't really paying attention. He still adored owls of every sort, though he hadn't got Hedwig this time around, nor any pet of any sort for that matter…He'd gone to the store on Sirius' and Remus' offer, but somewhat later in the afternoon than Hagrid had gone when they'd first visited Diagon Alley, and the snowy owl had already been sold. In the end, Harry hadn't been able to bring himself to buy something that could never begin to be a replacement. He never had; in all the years since he'd left Hogwarts till the day he'd died, he'd never owned another bird. He couldn't begin to imagine that he ever would.

Yeah," Neville said, and he obviously wasn't, but he said nothing else, just stuffed the letter in his bag. "She got Sirius' note about visiting. Also, she'd like to meet you, at your convenience."

"Me?' It was a bit blank, but it got his full attention. "Why?'

"She likes the idea that we're becoming friends." His voice was more than a bit flat. "And wants to know if I think that you could handle meeting my parents. You don't have to, but she's always looking for something that might trigger their memory, and you look just like your dad, with your mum's eyes."

Harry lowered his toast.

"Oh," he said, and then, in the silence... "Yeah, of course I will."

"You don't have to."

"I want to," he said, and it was true. "She's my godmother, isn't she? Your mum, I mean, and mine was yours. Sirius told me so. We're family." Neville looked down at the table for a moment, then up again.

"Thank you, Potter," he said, with an odd formality... For just a second, he looked like neither himself, or his mother or father, but as Harry remembered him in the long ago: moving in swift fury in the single split moment, shining sword in his hands on a dark battlefield … Rather like Augusta Longbottom herself, in fact: unbowed, unbeaten in his furious unswerving hope and determination for an impossible future, and impossible freedom. "Longbottom will not forget."

The particular ironic emphasis on the last few words nearly slew Harry on the spot. He slipped a hand under the table and took the chilly plump one in his own, squeezing it hard. Neville clutched it, just for a moment, and let him go gently, retrieving his knife and returning to his fruit and omelet.

"You sure that's all it is?' Ron said, obviously yet concerned. "Only you looked really sick for a moment there. I know you're trying to get fit, but you should have a bit of bacon or sausage, really. All that veg alone can't be good for you."

"There's nothing wrong or inherently unhealthy with being a vegetarian," Hermione said haughtily. "I don't know what kind of research wizards and witches do on the subject, but _Muggle_ research shows…"

"I'm fine," Neville cut her off. "And I'm not a vegetarian. I'm just not hungry is all." He pushed his plate away abruptly, and grabbing his bag, made his way hurriedly out. Hermione hissed in aggravation between her teeth.

"Nice going, _Ronald,"_ she said scathingly. "Now he's never going to tell us what's bothering him! How are we supposed to help him if he…"

Harry, despite his best efforts, couldn't resist the mental fantasy of turning the bushy-haired little busybody over his knee and smacking her behind.

"What is your problem, Granger?' he demanded loudly, as he slammed to his own feet. "Does everything have to be your business? Sometimes people just want to be left alone, don't you get that? Sometimes they don't want to be helped!"

He grabbed his bag and hurried out himself… Across the hall, Sirius and Remus watched him go, exchanging worried looks.

 **Two Hours Later**

 **The Dungeons**

Gryffindor Tower, Harry reflected, and as things promised to fall out under the renewed reign of the Marauders, would be a much more interesting place to live than it had been under McGonagall. The students had been surprised at last evening's announcement of the change in regime, but seemed accepting enough, and as for McGonagall herself, she'd made it abundantly clear that she was thrilled to bits with her lessened workload. She'd shed a few tartan-scented tears over her lambs-in-lions' colors, of course, but on the whole, she'd been emanating a definite aura of 'you _will_ reap what you sowed; have at it, boys, and good luck to you' in Sirius and Remus' direction. Harry, as the established patriarch of generations' worth of Marauder/Weasley hybrids, was finding that amusing in the retroactive extreme... Encouraging each new decade's worth of promising mischief-makers had truly been one of the joys of his old age, particularly since he'd never actually taught at Hogwarts himself.

Neville, of course, having been Herbology Professor, Head of Gryffindor, Deputy Head, _and_ Headmaster at varying points, doubtless held a different perspective, but right now, he had obviously not thinking on that, and, having set aside whatever traumatizing message his Gran had included in his morning letter, was struggling, instead, in the throes of a genuinely eleven-year old case of Pre-Potions Paralysis. The characteristic symptomatic whimpering was particularly severe.

"Oh come _on_ , Longbottom!" Harry dragged his reluctant friend towards the Potions classroom. " You're a hundred forty years old, the man's been dead for how many scores of years, you shared office space and morning coffee with his portrait for over five decades – hell, you were the one who fought the Board of Governers to have that cup of morning coffee painted into his main portrait - and you're _still_ intimidated by him?'

"Little bit, yeah?" Nev confessed. "Well, it's more the thought of him, really. The way he was. Is. I mean I know he was a hero and all, but that doesn't secretly make him nice in the here and now, does it? And for the record, I didn't fight for the coffee to be nice. I fought for the coffee so he'd quit whinging on the subject every time he'd see me drinking mine."

"He is a _hero_ ," Harry said firmly. "Right here, right now. Just think of him as our very own Batman."

Nev snorted, but followed him into the potions classroom. "Not helping," he said as he cast a surreptitious muffling spell and set up his cauldron. "Got anything else to work with?'

"Not really," Harry admitted, and perked. "Oh, wait, yes. I do. Remember Severus Malfoy?'

Neville blinked, then sniggered.

"Godric yes," he said. "Poor kid. Drake's second great-grandson, couldn't brew potions for shit, and ended up with a cauliflower growing out of his head for a full half of his third year when he mixed up the recipes for… What were they again?"

"No clue. Just picture the cauliflower on this Severus's head, maybe with a crown of our Malfoy's grapes from the train, and you should be just fine. Also, really? You're worrying about Potions? You're G.U.L.P certified and everything!"

"G.U.L.P hasn't been founded yet," Neville pointed out, and looking down, poked at his potions kit in distaste. "Never mind their improved practices and substance regulations. No wonder I always blew myself up every week, these ingredients are primitive to the point of the barbaric." He picked up a wad of tiny silvery tubers, nicked the root of one with his thumb till the juice ran, and sniffed, his round face wrinkling in distaste. "This iceweed wasn't grown in Scotland! It wasn't even grown in England!"

"Listen to you. How can you be afraid of him when you sound just like him? And how the heck can you tell that? No, never mind, don't tell me. It's got to do with the fertilizer, doesn't it?'

"It's always got to do with the fertilizer. They're _plants,_ Harry." He waved absently to Malfoy as he settled across from him. The young Slytherin half-sneered automatically, but as his hair was still tinted ever-so-slightly lavender at the tips, refrained from further comment. Harry poked him.

"You're supposed to hate him," he muttered. "For now, anyway."

"I never hated him," Neville muttered back. "I was _scared_ of him. There's a difference. And Daphne's third daughter married my Frankie! We practically have grandchildren together, if you're going by his-wife's-relative's-are-his-relatives tradition, and things warmed up between us besides, after Astoria died and Hannah started feeding him every night at the Leaky because he couldn't stand to go home to the empty house. You _know_ that! Am I supposed to just forget the fact that he was my best friend for forty years? I'm sorry, Harry, it may be easy for you, but for me… It's not, if only because time and circumstance and whatever this is… Isn't giving me the _option!"_

That stung more than a bit, and Harry opened his mouth to offer him a heated response, but before he could, a cauldron thudded behind him, and he looked back over his shoulder, to the averted eyes of an extremely unhappy Ron. He sighed and turned back.

"I dunno," he muttered. "I can't tell you what to do. It's just… He's not that person yet. Remember that."

"I couldn't forget if I tried," Neville stuffed the iceweed back in his potions kit. "But then, I reckon I can't forget what he's got to go through either, can I? You weren't the only one who had a shite home life, and yeah, we get to kill Voldemort again, but Drake's got to be _nice_ to him. Again. And he doesn't even know it yet!"

Harry grimaced at that.

"Yeah," he said reluctantly. "Though if things go according to plan, he won't have to this time, will he?'

"No clue. Things keep changing, don't they?'

Harry sighed again, and glancing across the aisle, bit his lip. The grapes had been Neville's, no doubt, but the lavender tints…

He let his wand slide half into his hand, and tilted his wrist in Malfoy's direction, making a tiny surreptitious circle with the tip, counterclockwise. As if on cue…

"Draco!" Vinnie Crabbe exclaimed suddenly. "Your hair's not purple anymore!"

Malfoy's face lit up, and he grabbed for the hand mirror that Pansy Parkinson was preening over. Moments later, his shoulders had straightened, and the sneer was back full-force. Behind his cauldron, Neville grinned, obviously trying to hide his amusement at his once-friend's pompous, relieved pleasure.

"Sorry," Harry muttered to him. "He wasn't _my_ best friend."

"We're not eleven anymore," Neville muttered back. "But they are. Try and remember that? And I may not be Headmaster anymore, not in name, but that doesn't mean that I don't remember. Every kid who ever passes through these halls is, by magical vow, _my_ responsibility. I haven't taken that vow yet, technically or temporally, so it may or may not be binding – but it wasn't ever the magic that bound me, when it comes right down to it."

Severus Snape, Harry reflected, had nothing on Neville Longbottom when it came to the scary. Not when it came right down to it, and he suddenly understood just why Nev's Animagus form was half again as big as it had ever been, now.

 _When is an Animagus not just an Animagus? There's never been a Headmaster or Headmistress who could change before. He was the first – and he took the vow while he was still learning. How would that affect the change – and the form - itself?_

Another thought occurred to him, startling and chilled.

 _Is that why he's here, at least? Whatever happened… It called_ me _back…But he_ is _Hogwarts, in a way. Did_ Hogwarts _call_ him _back,_ intentionally, _when it heard whatever it was… calling me? To protect itself?_

 _How big_ is _he going to get, before this is over? And why do I get the feeling that_ I'm _not the major player in the game anymore?_

"Ah. Yes. Harry Potter." The voice was as deep and silky and slippery and redolent with loathing as it had ever been. "Our new... celebrity."

Harry tucked his feet under his stool, folded his hands before him neatly, and did his very, very best to remind himself just why, exactly, he'd named his son after the man before him. As the class progressed, he answered questions simply and politely, and weighed and crushed and stewed deftly while Neville worked beside him. They didn't exchange a word, and Snape swept past them, looming over them just for the intimidation factor, but there was nothing to be said. Harry scooped up the porcupine quills as Nev removed the cauldron deftly from the flames, waiting for the precise count of seven before sprinkling them evenly over the top. Harry picked up his wand, stirring twice clockwise and three times counter-clockwise. Snape watched, frustrated as he removed it, taking the cloth Neville handed him to clean his wand…They sat down together as the potion continued to simmer, watching as it turned a beautiful, or at least precise, shade of bile green.

Neither said a word as their former nemesis came by one last time, staring at the contents before charming a bit into a vial and holding it up to a candle flame at the end of his own wand.

"Who taught you to brew, Longbottom?' he said abruptly.

"No one, sir," Neville said timidly, but clearly, and as Snape sneered at him... "I really like plants and gardening though, and Gran _is_ very fussy on how her tea is made."

"Mm," Snape looked at Harry. His amber wand was lying on the table; heset his own down, and reached over and picked it up. The fire within roared; he immediately dropped it. It skittered like a live thing across to where Snape's lay, and slammed up next to it.

"What the..." Ron swore violently and leapt back as the entire table was lit in arcing fire. Just as soon as the fire had started, it stopped. The two wands lay quietly on the desk, side by side. Harry picked his up cautiously. The hum at the back of his mind was vibrant. _Happy._

"It's glad to see her again," he said distantly. "It's missed her."

"I beg your pardon?' Snape snapped. In that split second, though, Harry knew he understood. They stood there for a long moment, staring at each other... Then Snape seized his wand and turned away abruptly.

"What was that about?' Ron hissed as they packed up their books.

"Later, Ron," he murmured. "This isn't the time."

Later, when 'later came', the three sat on Harry's bed, the wand lying between them.

"His wand's got the same core as me," he said without preamble. "Well, sort of. I think his dragon knew my dragon. More than that… I think they were mates. Married mates," he clarified. "Not friend-mates."

"WHAT? Urghhhh!"

"Yeah, I know. I don't know what it means. Can you write to your brother, maybe, and ask him about the relationships between Horntails, Ron?"

"Yeah, of course," Ron said uncertainly. "Though I'm not sure what you want me to say, yeah? Maybe we could just ask Hagrid."

"I don't think Snape would want this getting around. And Hagrid… Well. Uncle Remus says he's very nice, but not very good at keeping things to himself."

"So it's a secret?' The look on the red-head's face was almost painful in its hopefulness. Harry's heart twinged, and collapsed in resignation.

 _Bugger._

"Yeah," he said with a small smile. "It is. Just… Just between the three of us, okay?'

Beside him, Neville offered him a faint, sympathetic and understanding smile. Harry heaved an internal sigh, and gave over completely, sprawling on his front and picking up the wand. Ron settled comfortably cross-legged and prodded at it with his own wand.

"I'll write to Charlie tonight," he said, and then, completely unexpectedly… "You ought to be nicer to Granger."

"Sorry?" Harry said blankly.

"I know she's a nightmare, but you _were_ nice to her on the train. She thought you wanted to be friends, but then you both showed her up in class – all of the classes, really - and I'm not saying you're doing it on purpose, but if you are, it's a really mean thing to do." He shifted a bit uncomfortably as they stared at him. "I know you two haven't got mums or sisters, but girls are different from blokes. More sensitive. Weird, if you ask me, but …" He took a quick breath, as if steeling himself, and then collapsed in on himself, shoulders slumping as he picked at his sock and refusing to look them in the eye.

"It's just," he muttered. "If it was _my_ sister… I'd be mad if blokes were nice to her, and then were mean. And she's coming here next year, my sister, I mean, and she already hopes…" He flushed purple and shut down completely.

Harry put his wand down.

"Granger's alright," he said carefully. "But she _did_ accuse us of cheating, Ron, first thing. And all we did was say the word, and wave our wands the way McGonagall and Flitwick said to, and follow the steps the way they were written in Potions. We didn't brag or anything, did we?'

"You looked bloody pleased with yourself!"

"Well we were," Neville said unexpectedly. "Are. And we have a right to be! We've got everything right on the first go, and I can't speak for Harry, but that's kind of a new thing for me, yeah? You'd look pleased with yourself if _you_ got it on the first go, wouldn't you?'

"I s'pose, but…" Again, he wilted. "I dunno. I dunno what I'm trying to say. And she was being kind of nosy this morning, I know that, but… She just wanted to help, see?" He fumbled. "Girls… Girls like to help."

"We'll be nicer to her," Harry said firmly, though wondering wildly at the same time, where, exactly this New Improved and Sensitive Ron had come from. 'If you tell her to stop telling everyone we're cheating. We're just doing our best, and so what if it's good? She's not the only witch or wizard who's allowed to do well."

"I can try," Ron said, again unenthusiastically. "I just don't know that she'll listen. Girls don't, usually, not the ones I've known anyway."

"Yeah," Harry agreed. "My aunt's like that."

"Gran too," Neville agreed. "Though she sure has a lot to say."

"Did she yell at you for buying the cherry wand?' Harry asked at that, looking over. "In your letter this morning? You said she didn't, but Granger was right on that much anyway, something more was bothering you. You don't have to tell us if you don't want to, but if she is bothered about it, I can write and try to explain myself."

"No. Actually… She didn't talk much about it at all. She had something else to tell me."

"Uh?' Ron sat up. "About your parents?'

"Not… Well, sort of. About the Death Eater who tortured them."

"The… The bastard's still alive?'

"No," Neville said after a pause. "No. She's not. Her name was Bellatrix Lestrange, and she was in Azkaban, and she died. The Ministry of Magic sent Gran a letter last night. They said that… That she went insane, and chewed her own hands off, and somehow – probably incidental magic – managed to heal them over, but then she got an infection. A really bad, painful one, and well. She died."

It was very flat. Harry's mouth dropped slightly. Ron looked simultaneously thrilled and horrified, as only an eleven year old boy could.

"Urgggh," he said in hushed tones. "She chewed her own hands off? Blimey, that's not just crazy, that's… That's _dedicated_ crazy, that is!"

"Yeah,' Harry said faintly, and somewhere far away, from a great distance.

 _Bellatrix Lestrange is dead._

 _The woman who killed Sirius is dead._

 _Bellatrix Lestrange is…_

He put his head between his knees and breathed deeply, in through his nose, out through his mouth. Again from far away, he could hear Ron calling his name, alarmed, and could hear Neville scrambling off the bed, running for the door, calling…

"Pup?" And then Sirius was there, suddenly, (or at least it looked like Sirius; this version was shockingly neat and groomed in his trim grey trousers and white dress shirt and black and gold waistcoat) and his lean hard arms were wrapped around him, soothing him, and Remus was there too, petting his hair and his face and pulling him into his lap as Sirius wrapped himself around them both. Harry buried his face in his chest and tried to breathe. "Pup, what is it? Harry? It's okay, Padfoot's here, and Moony's here… Tell us what's wrong, pup. What is it?'

"The Death Eater that hurt Nev's mum and dad is dead," Ron said through white lips. "She died yesterday, in Azkaban. I think… I think it might have reminded him of his mum and dad; is that it, Harry?'

Remus swore and pulled him closer. Sirius, surprisingly, said nothing – but after a moment, got up and went to Neville himself, pulling _him_ in tightly, and then pulling him over to the tangle on the bed.

"Couldn't have happened to a crazier bitch," he said strongly and firmly. "Was it painful, Nev, do you know?'

"They said she bit her own hands off," Neville said faintly. "And then she got an infection, after healing herself partway spontaneously. They said… It took months. In the end, even the dementors were avoiding her because of the smell."

"Gracious," Remus said. "How very unpleasant." He settled himself comfortably. "Anything else?'

"Moony, really," Sirius said. He petted Neville's hair. Neville, surprisingly, snuggled in. "Well, Nev?'

"Her funeral's Tuesday next. Gran suggested we go after everything is over, so that I, at least, can piss on her grave. She said she'd do it, but she doesn't have the proper equipment."

"I think we can arrange that. As your Heads of House and all. Though that being said… Why wait till after? Harry, old chap, how would you feel about lending young Neville here your invisibility cloak?'

"Only if I can come too," Harry said, wiping his nose on his sleeve. "Can I, Sirius?'

"I think I must insist," Sirius said grandly. "Alice is your godmother, after all, Harry, as Lily was yours, Neville. What about you, Ronald? Can we convince you to make a donation to the cause?'

' _Blimey,_ yeah," Ron said with a bounce of enthusiasm, and stilled just as quickly. "I mean… If it's okay with Neville. I wouldn't want to intrude on a family moment."

"No, no." Neville too, wiped his nose. "The more the better. And you're a blood traitor too; it's perfect. All we need now is a Muggleborn – Harry's our halfblood after all - and we'll have one hundred percent guarantee that she'll never rise again, if only out of the shame."

"We could invite Granger," Ron offered. "No, she hasn't got the proper equipment, but she's got the that Muggle thing – the spray mister, she called it - from her potions kit. That might work." He considered his own words. "That'd be brilliant, actually. I mean… It is a _Muggle_ thing. A Death Eater would prolly hate it all on its own, never mind what was inside." He brightened. "Maybe we could even sneak it into the grave! As a goodbye present!"

Harry, despite his emotion, or perhaps because of it, began to giggle. It was infectious. Soon all three boys were in an aching, laughing heap…Remus smiled and slid to his feet, shaking his head indulgently.

"Alright," he said. "Sirius… Why don't you summon a house elf, and get these lads set up with some hot chocolate. I'm just going to drop a quick line to Augusta and let her know that young Neville here received her missive, and that we'll be aiding and abetting her suggested arrangements."

"Tell her I'd be delighted to take everyone out for dinner after," Sirius said grandly again. "As Head of House Black and in honor of my dear departed cousin's passing." He heaved himself up with a grunt, and looked down, startled, at the loud crack sounding from under his hip. "What the… Shit!" he held up the two pieces of the wand he'd inadvertently sat on in dismay. "What…" Ron's face fell in abject horror.

"He'll replace it," Harry said hastily. "He has to, he broke it! Don't worry, Ron, he'll replace it, won't he?'

"Of course he will," Remus said firmly. "First thing tomorrow. We'll floo to Diagon Alley from my office, Ron, and get you a new one."

Ron looked torn.

"I dunno," he said. "Mum and Dad might not like it; I should at least owl them."

"I'll do that," his Head of House said. "Neville, is there anything you'd like me to pass onto your grandmother?'

"No," he said, and then, sitting up… "Yeah. Could you tell her I got my needle and my feather on the first try? And that Professor Snape asked me who taught me how to brew, and he wasn't looking like he wanted to bite me at all?'

Both men's eyebrows flew up. "Both your needle _and_ your feather?' Remus repeated, distinctly impressed.

"He and Harry are the best in the year," Ron volunteered. "So far, anyway. Their potion looked exactly like someone had just puked in their cauldron. Granger nearly cried; hers just looked like melted bogies."

"And yours?'

"Oh well. I don't know what I did to mine. It smelled just like Christmas, and when Snape made me and Seamus taste it, it came across as really thick and chewy mince pie mix. Total bollocks. It was so bad he didn't even Vanish it, just told us to leave it; he was going to make one of his other students clean it out and scrub the cauldron in detention and would return it next week."

"Mmhmm. And you have no idea what made it go that way?'

"It was the porcupine quills, I think. I think Seamus might have picked up pine needles instead. They're right next to each other on the shelves in the classroom, and it looked like someone bled on the label."

"Hot chocolate," Remus directed Sirius as he sniggered. "I'll be right back."

He morphed into McWolf, and bounced down the stairs… Feminine squeals and cries of delighted sounded from below, alongside a deep, mellow whuffle. Sirius grinned after him fondly.

"Alright there now, Harry?' he asked, turning back. "And you, Neville?'

"Yeah," Neville sat on the bed again. "I just… I can't believe she's really dead." He looked a bit forlorn suddenly. "I feel like I should be happier. Like I should feel something. Anything. But I don't."

Sirius sat beside him and pushed his neat dark braid back.

"If only it were that simple, kiddo," he said, and then, exquisitely gently. "It will come. Probably when you visit your mum and dad next, and see that they haven't changed." He hesitated, then tilted the round chin up, looking the boy straight in the eye. "You do know that they're not going to get better, don't you? Ever? I know that your Gran has probably told you not to give up… But you're old enough, I think, to know that some things can't be fixed. It does no one any good to pretend otherwise."

Neville's lower lip trembled. Sirius sighed.

"I knew your parents," he said quietly. "They were great people. More importantly… They were good people. They wouldn't want you to live with false hope, Neville. They'd just want you to live."

Neville's eyes spilled over. Ron and Harry looked a bit uncomfortable, but didn't move. Sirius stroked the boy's hair as he wept, not as the child he seemed, but as a man, with a man's rough, full sobs.

"There you go," he said finally, and dug for a handkerchief. "Blow."

Neville blew, and scrubbed at his face.

"M sorry," he said, muffled, as he blew a second time, and then, suddenly small and in a child's lost tones again… "Am I a bad person for saying that I'm glad it hurt?"

"Merlin's saggy tits, no," Sirius said feelingly. " _I'm_ glad it hurt. Bellatrix Lestrange was evil, plain evil, and if she were still alive, I'd give her the Order of Merlin First Class for killing herself." He tilted his own sleeve, and his wand slid out; he tapped the night table.

"Hot chocolate," he ordered. "Two big pots, half a dozen mugs, and a plate of mixed biscuits." He tucked his wand away and boosted Neville to his feet. "Come on. Let's go clean you up."

"He's nice," Ron said, helping himself to a biscuit as the door closed behind them and the taps started. It was definitely a bit awkward. Then… "D'you think he was talking on himself? When he said some things can't be fixed?'

"Maybe," Harry said. He poured himself some cocoa, sat on the bed again, suddenly exhausted. "I dunno. Maybe not. He's a bit mad sometimes, but I'd be too, if I'd spent ten years in a place where people chew their own hands off to pass the time. He's got Remus though, and he helps. A lot. Almost all the way, really, most of the time, and when it doesn't… He's just there for him. When you've been alone for that long, and mad with it… I think that's everything."

The message was not subtle, but then, neither was his audience… Ron sighed and sat beside him.

"I'll talk to Granger," he said. "Prolly won't do any good. Girls are weird like I said. You'd never catch a bloke chewing his own hands off; he'd have nothing left to polish his wand with." He looked sideways. "Did… Did I hear him right? Professor Black, I mean? You really have an invisibility cloak?'

"Yeah," Harry reached under his pillow and pulled it out. "It was my dad's, and his dad's before him, and his dad's before him."

" _Wicked,"_ Ron breathed, fingering the silky, shimmering material. "And they let you bring it here? Professor Black and Professor Lupin, I mean?'

"They said I can only use it on the weekends," Harry said. "But yeah." He eyed the redhead sideways. "Don't tell Granger, okay? You know how she is about rules; probably report it to the Wizengamot. I don't want to risk that till after November, when Sirius and Remus get custody of me."

"Course." He swung the cloak over his head, and for awhile, and once Neville had returned, red-eyed and composed, they simply amused themselves, creeping into the main floor's loo at one point and making strange hooting sounds that sounded, Harry suspected, much more like owls than ghosts. Sirius found the entire episode terribly funny… Remus just lolled as McWolf on the hearth-rug as he graciously permitted the younger, more homesick children to rub his ears and pat his belly, and shifted back periodically to explain the details of Animagus training to several equally excited seventh years.

Much later, tucked warmly into bed, Harry stared at the roof of his canopy. Opposite, Neville snored softly, exhausted, and Ron, Seamus' borrowed wand glowing softly behind his curtains, scribbled and murmured to himself as he scratched out a letter to Charlie… For the first time since Neville had told them of his Gran's letter, Harry's thoughts returned to his odd wand. He rolled on his side and pulled it out from under his extra pillow, tracing the shadows of the flames within gently with a single finger.

 _Not… Quite… Parseltongue. Yet you can understand_ me _, obviously._

The deep, serpentine hiss of laughter sounded again at the back of his mind. Instead of trying to formulate words, Harry closed his eyes, and did his best to project the emotions he felt when formulating a question. With it, he sent an image – not of himself as he was now, but as he had been: taller, stooped, with still-thick white hair, green eyes and cheeks heavily lined with age, no glasses (they'd finally come up with a spell to fix his vision) and in his favorite cherry red jumper and soft black trousers. He felt, in return, a pause, and serpentine eyebrow, if there was such a thing, lift in amused response. The soft prodding at his shields grew stronger, then withdrew, not under protest, but of its own decisive volition.

 **/Not yet/.**

It wasn't Parseltongue, but the meaning, for the first time, was precise and clear. Harry sat up abruptly. The amber was no longer yellow, but a deep radiant blue, hot and literally sweating in his hand. He dropped it, scrambling back and shaking his fingers… And yelped as they cooled suddenly, and the amber, and its color, faded along with it. Inside, the individual flames were tumbling steadily, faster and faster until they were nothing but a bar of rolling light looping back on itself. He found it oddly hypnotic, and edged closer again, picking it up gingerly .

 _ **?harry?**_

The voice was clear and shockingly loud in his mind, husky and quintessentially feminine. He nearly dropped the wand in shock.

 _ **?ginny?**_ he tried tentatively, hardly believing his own ears. _?_ ** _ginny? is that you?_**

 _ **?harry, love. It's alright. It's alright. You can…**_

The voice stopped abruptly. He waited, and waited, with bated breath, for the next words. They didn't come. He nearly screamed in frustration.

"I can… what?' he whispered aloud. "I can… What? Ginny, _please_!"

There was no answer. Through Ron's curtains, he heard the whispered delumination spell, and heard the creak of the bed, and a final grunt.

"Night mate," Ron said sleepily. "Sleep well."

Harry didn't answer. He couldn't. He just rolled over and wept into the soft darkness of his pillow.


	11. Look for the Boy

**Co-Heads' Quarters**

 **Gryffindor Tower**

 **Two Nights Later**

"So?" Remus put his book down as Sirius entered their bedroom, tossing his teacher's robe and book bag over the rather hairy armchair by the fire. "First official day of classes… How did it go, Professor Black?'

"It was nerve wracking," Professor Black confessed. "Yet oddly familiar. All those gaping empty-eyed mouth-breathers in black cloaks drifting about the corridors and wanting to kiss me? I felt right at home, except I was throwing essays and research reports at them instead of Patronus charms." He kicked off his shoes and threw himself on the huge bed, wrapping his arms around his lover and burying his face in his neck. "Mm. You smell good."

"You don't," Remus said fondly. He ran his fingers through the black, damp tangle of hair. "You smell like wet dog. Should I ask?'

"I stopped by Hagrid's right before I came here to ask him if he could entice a few grindylows out of the Lake for a day or two on behalf of my third years, and got caught in the rain on the way back."

"Ah." He hauled him up a bit. Sirius shook out his hair and sat up cross-legged, pulling off his socks. "And how were the first years?'

"Alright. " He wiggled out of his trousers and slipped under the blankets. "Why are we in bed again? It's not even dinner time yet."

"Technically, I'm _on_ the bed. _You're_ in it. It's my free evening, at least till seven, and I enjoy lolling." He slid down beside him. "I think it's McWolf's influence. I never got a chance to do much of that sort of thing as a teenager, unless you count the days after the full moon when I was in the hospital wing."

"I don't." Sirius rolled over and rested his head on his shoulder. "Cuddle me, Moony. I'm cold."

"And worried about Harry? He's not ignoring Ron and Hermione again, is he?'

"No, no. Well, not Ron, anyway, and honestly, Hermione's a sweet girl, but she _is_ a bit much on occasion. He's trying though, so we have no grounds to complain." He flopped on his back. "That aside, though… You're right. I thought it was just you being you, but he's not normal. And after that little trip to Surrey that I made this afternoon on my spare period…"

"You went to the Dursleys?' Remus sat up. "Did anyone see you?'

"No. No one was home. I got in and out without anyone seeing me." He rubbed his eyes. "It's not good, Rem."

"Details," his lover ordered grimly.

"No pictures of him," Sirius said unhappily. "Anywhere. A ton of his cousin – 'ton' being the operative word; they more than obviously stuff him with all the food that Harry never gets – and I did a deep scan for residual magics throughout besides. Nothing that can't be explained away by accidental magic, but these were all _habitual_ accidental magics. The place reeked of Notice-Me-Nots, Moony. There was even a drawer in the fridge that held traces, and when you combine those two things with the fact that they had him sleeping in a bloody boot cupboard…"

 _"What?'_

"You heard me. And they weren't the only two things. There was a toddler mattress in there, a baby pillow, and one sheet. Not even a blanket: a sheet, one sheet that he had a choice to sleep on or under. and before you ask, it was definitely his. I could smell him all over it, and in none of the other bedrooms. Oh, and I checked the attic and the closets; there were no clothes remotely near his size, no toys, no photos of James or Lily... The only thing I found related to them was an old, filled bankbook with monthly deposits to a bank a couple of blocks over dating back to the week Harry was left there. I'd bet my entire line of vaults that they were made out from Gringotts, and were transferred directly from the Potter accounts – and that if we checked, there'd still be outgoing."

Remus Lupin swore. Loudly.

"I don't want to ask," Sirius said after a moment. "But I have to. Have you talked to Snape?'

"Briefly. He said there are no signs of sexual abuse, at least. Insofar as our jokes are concerned, he's just inordinately precocious..."

The sigh of relief was profound.

"On the other hand, he's got the strongest Occlumency shields he's ever seen in an untrained witch or wizard in his life."

"Occ… Huh?'

"You heard me. His Notice-Me-Nots aren`t just physical; they`re mental."

"But Ollivander said he needed to learn that! Shielding, I mean! That the wand indicated…"

"He got it backwards," Remus said bleakly. "I asked Severus about that. An amber wand isn't an indication of a mind that needs to learn to shield itself, Sirius; it's an indication of a mind naturally inclined _toward_ it, out of self-protection." He reached across to the night table and retrieved a sheet of parchment, magically inscribed and copied from, if the script were any indication, some extremely old book. "He gave me this. Have a look." Sirius shook himself out from the blankets and took it.

"The potential power levels of wands made of amber reflect the fact that they are not formed from wood, but from the liquid heart of wood, and are therefore and effectively an unsheathed double core. As such, they are very dangerous, and by their nature, demand a partner with great courage and a compensatory need to protect others. Wands made of amber are exquisitely rare, and tend to align themselves with witches and wizards who have undergone serious trauma. Amber is believed to balance emotions, eliminate fears, relieve headaches, clear the mind, and dissolve negative energy. Amber is almost exclusively paired with unicorn hair, in the interests of promoting healing not through, but in, the chosen witch or wizard. "

He read the next line to himself, and when he continued, his voice was not quite steady.

`Amber automatically rejects phoenix feather cores. They are antithetical substances, for the witch or wizard who draws the attention of an amber wand is by definition unready, upon the moment of partnering, to embrace the new life that the phoenix embodies.`

He turned the paper over.

"It is not recommended that amber be paired with dragon heartstring. It can be done, but they type of witch or wizard that it would attract would be so inherently conflicted that they could be considered nothing less than a danger to those around him. Any wandmaker who attempts to craft an artifact of this combination should be well-warned; they are taking not only their own lives into their hands, but risking the lives of all those around them…' What the _fuck,_ Moony? Why would Ollivander even craft such a thing, much less sell it to an eleven year old, _much_ less one cursed by bloody _Voldemort_?'

"And that's the question, isn't it," Remus said. "Severus was so disturbed by the particulars and the implications that he flooed to Diagon Alley on his own free period. Ollivander doesn't remember having Harry's wand in stock, Siri, much less making it. He swears, and a quite thorough Legilimency scan confirmed it… That Harry bought the first wand he matched; the holly and phoenix feather wand that he rejected, and chose me."

"But… We were _there_! We _remember_!" He clutched his head. "We do, don't we? Oh God, please tell me we do, because _I_ do, and if I really, really don't…"

"Shhh, shhh." Remus took him in his arms, soothing him and kissing his eyes and cheeks. "We do. We were there. Here, see? Look." He shook his sleeve. "Wand. Holly, phoenix feather. Mine, mine, mine. All mine, just like you. Oh, Padfoot, don't cry. It's not the end of the world, I promise. It just means he needs a bit of help, alright? A bit of help, and we'll get it for him, and soon, he'll be up and perking and annoying us for all the wrong and hilarious reasons, just like James did. Mind you," he added after a moment. "We might not want to encourage him too much. He seems to have Lily's brains too, and the combination there…"

He trailed off. Sirius burrowed in.

"Can't blame that one on us," he said. "They didn't exactly ask our opinion before they knocked themselves up, did they? "

Remus huffed with laughter. "No," he said. "No, they didn't."

"What are we going to do though, really?' He removed his head from his lover's chest and sat up, shaking his still damp hair. "Ollivander might not remember making the wand, or selling it, or really problematically and probably, where he got it in the first place, but people have seen it now. Dumbledore's seen it, Rem, and you can bet that he knows exactly what it means. What's it going to do to our case if he presents Harry in court as inherently mentally unstable? I'm inherently mentally unstable enough, on the record, and even with you to balance me… You know there are people out there who are just waiting for your condition to reassert itself as suddenly as it went away!"

"I'm aware," Remus said. "And I think… Honestly… That the best thing that we can do is to present ourselves as aware of the problems, potential and actual, and exercise our pro-active options. Now, before they can get it on record that we haven`t. They can't say that they're going to take him away from us so that they can offer him the very same opportunities for help that we'd already be giving him, could they?'

"They can," he said miserably. "And they will. It's _Dumbledore_ , for God's sake! How can we fight Dumbledore?'

`We're Marauders, Sirius Black. We can do anything."

"I don't know that being a Marauder is actually an advantage in this situation, you know?'

"Bite your tongue, you plonker. You really did go soft in the head in Azkaban, didn't you?'

"Depends on the head you're talking on," Sirius said with a mischievous and largely automatic leer, but it was half-hearted at best, and collapsed back into misery within seconds. "He's not going to like it. I mean… he's _really_ not going to like it."

"He doesn't have to like it," Remus said frankly. "In fact, it's probably better for us that he doesn't."

"How d'you reckon that?'

"Rule number one," he intoned. "If your sprog doesn't tell you that he hates you at least once a week, you're not raising him right. We`ll throw a few vegetables at him, ground him once or twice for not doing his homework, and soon he'll be whinging so loudly about us and our unreasonably good parenting that the court will not only assign us custody, but hail us as heroes for taking him on."

"You really think that'll work?" Sirius asked doubtfully. "I told my parents that I hated them a lot more often than once a week, and it did absolutely nothing for our relationship."

"Yes, but they threw curses at you instead of parsnips and carrots, and we both know the kind of extra-curriculars that they wanted to assign you as homework, don't we?'

"There's that," Sirius conceded, and wiggling out of his shirt, burrowed in again. "And just for reference, wet dog is like garlic. It doesn't count if you both smell like it. Or eat it."

"No?' his lover, said, amused. "Is that a fact."

"It is," he confirmed, and with a rather canine growl, pounced and dragged him under the blankets.


	12. With the Sun in His Eyes

**The Room Of Requirement**

 **Midnight**

"Therapy!" Harry threw himself on the chair furiously. "Can you believe it? They want me to go to bloody _therapy_!"

"Mm." Neville sat, one foot tucked half under him and one draped over the side of his chair as he licked a thumb and flipped a page of the thick glossy copy of 'Herbology Today'. Beside him on the table was a stack of Potions books, and beside those was a neat pile of scribbled parchment. "Better, but still more fifteen than eleven. At eleven, you would have been shy and worried and quiet, but cautiously and secretly grateful that anyone actually cared enough to get you checked out."

"Bugger." He slumped, then sat up. "On the other hand, they _are_ suffering from that not-unwarranted assumption that I'm bizarrely precocious. I'll tone it down a bit over the next day or two, and hopefully that'll be enough. Though... For the record, and as an adult again... I'm still not thrilled. Occlumency shields aside, I'm _dead!_ Doesn't dying, at least, excuse a bloke from people poking around in your head?"

Neville looked up at that. His expression was not a little wry.

"You'd think," he said. "Wouldn't you? But then… For you, at least, the two have always tended to go together."

"What is _that_ supposed to mean?"

Neville rolled his eyes.

"Avada Kedravra?' he suggested. "Other people's bits literally stuck in your head… Possession by evil Dark Lords, years of vision-induced headaches, all only solved again by more people killing you… Is any of this sounding familiar? At all?"

"It's not really the same thing."

"Not really, no, but it _is_ part and parcel." He put the book aside, and tucked his feet up properly, linking his arms around his knees. "They're not wrong, you know. You could use someone to talk to, even now. You had a great life after you graduated, but all of us who grew up with you could always tell that you never quite got over your childhood. Maybe you should look at this as an opportunity to process a bit, even if you can't exactly revisit what happened in precise and specific terms?"

"What does _that_ mean?'

Neville hesitated, then firmed his mouth.

"It means I'm worried about you," he said. "You said when we first talked that your main goal was to be happy this go around, but you're not acting it. You've been self-sabotaging yourself left right and center, avoiding friends and relationships and emotional commitments again because that's what you know. And that'd be one thing, wouldn't it, if it were just your life at stake, but it's not, is it? It's the whole world's again... Literally."

"I know that. You think I don't know that?"

"I know you do, but, and not to sound selfish... But it's on me too, isn't it, this time? This is _my_ school, and always will be, and you _need_ to get your shit together, mate, because I got rid of Bellatrix Lestrange; I chewed her up and spit her out in cold blood and left her healed just enough to suffer through the kind of torture she put my parents through, and yes, okay, there were those personal motives, but still. You _owe_ me for that. You owe me, and I need you to come through, Harry, because..." He struggled. "I get the do-over thing, I really do. But if you're eleven again, so am I. And you got a free pass on killing Quirrell this time... But even if it was Bellatrix Lestrange..."

He stopped abruptly. Harry stared at him, mouth ajar. Neville sat back and poured himself a finger of firewhiskey, gulping it with closed eyes.

"I'm sorry," Harry said inadequately.

"I wish I was," Neville said bluntly. "And trust me... That's worse."

They sat in silence for a few minutes.

"I understand," Harry said finally. "Alright. I won't forget again. Now. Horcruxes." He reached for quill and paper. "Ideas?'

"Lots, but that's the easy part. The hard part's going to be orchestrating a meeting with the Dark Wanker once all that's taken care of – preferably here at the school again; I know secrets about this place that Tom couldn't possibly know simply because he was never inducted as its Avatar…"

`Its…What?'

"Avatar. Hogwarts is alive. Sort of. Not quite sentient, but not quite… Not. I took a magically binding oath, and it seems that I retain Head Emeritus status at least, because it still hears me when I talk to it, and responds to my orders. Or takes them into account, at least, since unlike Dumbledore, I don't presume to assume that I'm really doing anything other than making hopefully helpful suggestions." He caught the bewildered look. "You don't actually think that the Hat and I spent fourteen minutes and thirty seven seconds talking about my parents, do you? We did, to the point, but we'd gone through all of that years back, and mostly, it just wanted explanations on what we're up to now."

"I don't…" Harry shook his head. "Are you saying that Hogwarts now has _two_ Headmasters? You _and_ Dumbledore? How does _that_ work?'

"We're playing it by ear. And without his knowledge, obviously. Right now, Hogwarts says that I outrank him on the singular subject at least, simply because I know what's coming and how to defeat the enemy – or will, anyway, if you don't quit messing with the known fixed points on the timeline."

"Pot? Kettle? Pandora? Bellatrix? Hello?'

"Pandora's not a fixed point. If we sort this out soon enough, she won't affect anything at all. Bellatrix was a risk, yes, but I did think about it, and thought back, and really, the only thing she did of note after Tom rescued her from Azkaban and before the final battle was torture a bunch of people who would have been tortured by other people if she weren't around, and shoot the curse that knocked Sirius through the Veil. You'd already rendered the point moot just by returning – any vision that Tom sent you on him being captured in the DOM would be useless now – so really, I didn't see any harm in resolving the issue straight up."

"Fine." Harry reached for a parchment and pen. "Diadem, diary, locket, cup, ring, and of course, me."

"Diadem's already taken care of," Neville said, and at his odd look... "What? It was a bloody great chunk of desecrated soul, paid for with literal murder! Was I just supposed to leave it lying around to stink up my school?"

"I don't think there's a way to answer that question correctly that without hurting my own feelings. How did you manage it?"

"Ah well. That was the easy part, like I said. Basilisk venom, please," he said to no one in particular. "One horcrux's worth, in an impermeable container." A small vial promptly appeared on the table beside him. Harry stared.

"Um. How?" he said again.

"As Headmaster," Neville said. "I have the right and privilege of access, through the Room of Requirement, to every other room within the ward-walls of the school. Those walls didn't include the Chamber of Secrets the first time around, but once the school was rebuilt… they did. Do. And now that we're back in the original timeline, so is the basilisk. I'm not sure exactly what kind of deal the Room 's worked out with it, but there it is. Or rather, here it is." He held up the vial in the firelight. "I'm not sure whether to be repulsed or impressed by its efficiency. The stuff's still warm."

"But the school hasn't been rebuilt yet! Or broken yet! How does that work? How _can_ it work?'

"It doesn't work outside the Room," Neville explained. "But once you're in it, it gives you what you require, doesn't it, from ideas drawn from your, and all of the former collective inhabitants`, memories, imagination, and experiences. I occasionally require certain things to defend the school that only existed in our time, but it can still give them to me because I'm _from_ that time, and they, and the particular moments in time, exist as factual memories, and therefore fact, in my head."

"So … Anything that you think of here… Becomes real?' Harry held his own head.

"No. Anything that the Room _identifies_ as real through me… Can become _actual_ , if Hogwarts deems it necessary for its defense. It doesn't care so much about me personally, but when you take a magically binding oath, your core changes. You change. When you accept the Headmaster`s Oath for what it truly is, and it accepts you, the magics of the school itself become a part of you, and you of them. And again, that kind of symbiotic relationship isn't really affected by time."

"Is this common knowledge? I've never heard anything about this before! Not in any book, not from anyone, anywhere!"

"You wouldn't have. It's knowledge passed down by the Sorting Hat on a need-to-know basis, from Godric and the Founders themselves."

"What if you get a bad Headmaster? Or Headmistress?'

Nev shrugged. "The school accommodates. And not everyone who's held the position has been Oathsworn, or had access to all of the privileges inherent. They might think they have been, and do, but trust me, if you've been accepted as such… You know it." He put the vial down. "If you don't, on the other hand… Well. How can you know, really, what you're missing if you've never really experienced it?'

And weren't the implications of that unnerving, Harry thought uneasily, as a sudden memory returned.

 _Oh, I would never dream of assuming I know all Hogwarts' secrets, Igor. Only this morning, for instance, I took a wrong turn on the way to the bathroom and found myself in a beautifully proportioned room I had never seen before, containing a really rather magnificent collection of chamber pots. When I went back to investigate more closely, I discovered that the room had vanished….But I must keep an eye out for it. Possibly it is only accessible at five thirty in the morning. Or it may only appear at the quarter moon - or when the seeker has an exceptionally full bladder._

"What do you think I should do about Dumbledore?" he asked abruptly. "I mean… What would you do?'

"Avoid him," Neville said frankly. "As much as possible. You know he's not going to let you, but you've got to try, at least, Harry. You're much more than Auror enough to know that this entire thing with Remus and Sirius' jobs is a set up – what better way to show that they're inept parents by handing them a towerful of crazed students as their first nannying job - and if they get turned down for you in November, he's Head of the Wizengamot. He can sink an appeal faster than you can say "Why did Sirius Black never get a trial, again? Oh yes, it's because he's engaged to an ex-werewolf. A male ex-werewolf."

Harry grimaced.

"We live in the bloody dark ages, you know that? Though he'd be a great fat hypocrite trying to pull that one after his affair with Gellert Grindelwald."

"That's not common knowledge, though," Neville pointed out. "And the personal ethics of outing him aside – which I should hope that they're not…."

"Of course they're not," Harry snapped. "I may be a certified codger with age-equivalent _and_ abandonment issues, but I'm not a complete pillock, Longbottom . "

"I'm glad to hear it. At this point, he's not the enemy, just a massive pain in the arse. We don't want to ruin him; we just want him to stay out of our fur and feathers while we take care of business. Speaking of which…"

"Right. Right." He sat up. "I've been thinking about that. I reckon we can go after the cup next."

"Plan?'

"Bellatrix Lestrange is dead. It's been publicly acknowledged that she and her husband and brother in law were predominately responsible for your parents' condition. Now that you're in school, on top of your parents being in St. Mungo's… How are your family finances again?"

Neville sat back slowly, unfolding his legs and tapping his fingers on his magazine, beside the little vial of basilisk venom.

"You think that Longbottom should demand restitution from her estate," he said. "Formally?'

'You wouldn't get all of it," he said. "Then again… You might. It's not like they charge anyone rent to stay in Azkaban, and Rastaban and Rudolphus have life sentences and no living heirs."

"Barty Junior was there," the other wizard said, half to himself. "Any petition we put forth would have to include him."

"That's your choice. It'd be an unpopular one, though, considering his father is elderly and in officially good standing with the Ministry. Honestly, I think you'd get even more of a chance of getting access to the Lestrange vaults if you made a point of leaving him off. It'd make you look…" He made a vague gesture. "Understanding of circumstance."

"Alright." Neville pulled himself from his brooding reverie with obvious effort, and tucked his legs up again. "How do we do this? I can't just suggest it to Gran; not like…" He made a vague gesture of his own at his own small, stripe-pajamaed body. "I have a hard enough time taking myself seriously like this, much less convincing anyone else to."

"Sirius can do it for you. He's Head of House Black, and Bellatrix was a Black…. And even if the petition doesn't work… He can at the very least, demand a retroactive dissolution of marriage and demand her dowry back, to be placed in trust for you and your parents'. Once that's done, it's but a short bout of whinging to get him to take us to Gringott's to play pirates in the piles of ill-gotten gold. He should be done Peter Pan by then; he'll probably want to join us." He cocked his head. "As for taking yourself seriously... Why don't you just ask the room to make you look like you used to, at least here? And turn the place into something more familiar?"

"Why don't you?'

"It's not about me. This isn't my place, is it? If what you said is true, the Room of Requirement is the Headmaster's real office, and you've had that affinity for it ever since seventh year, when everyone was hiding out here."

Neville's round face quirked in a smile, but he closed his eyes… Moments later, he and the room were shifting and changing, the room into something warm and glowing and earthy, with squashy chairs, hanging plants of wild and beautiful variety, and the smell of coffee, rather than tea, throughout. A considerable, if not huge, desk was tucked in the corner, and instead of the gadgets that had lined Dumbledore's shelves, there were thousands upon thousands of constantly shifting photos : all of students, waving and playing and laughing, some reading, some napping in the library… Harry couldn't help but smile as his eyes turned to the singular object among them… an old-style wizarding camera, battered and carefully tended, with a Muggle-style ID strip on the bottom, he knew, that had neatly preserved letters printed on it with a biro spelling 'Colin Creevey'.

'I don't think you ever missed one," Harry said. "Of all the students you looked after, from the day they arrived to the day they left. Though I don't know why you had to get them all as first years. That means there's not a Quidditch photo in the lot."

"I'm a herbologist. I like seeds," Neville said, and his voice was much deeper, and Harry looked again. He was tall now – well over six feet - built, with a solid, muscular body. There were a thick streaks of silver in his darkened hair – he'd outgrown the childish blond by fifth year – but the soft, endearing face was the same, despite its chiselled adult angles and his grandmother's uncompromising eyebrows... Neville Longbottom, despite his unprepossessing start to life, had grown into rather a heartbreaker anyone's standards, and in his dark brown and gold Headmaster's robes, open fronted over sturdy, practical corduroy trousers and the rich, nubbled burnt orange jumper that should have looked hideous on anyone, but suited him right down to the ground, he was an impressive, and oddly reassuring, sight. He even smelled the way he had in his years as Deputy and Head, again of coffee, rather than tea, of wet dark young earth and spiced ale, and just a hint of the fresh lavender that Hannah always used to wash the sheets at the Leaky.

"You're what… Seventy like this?' he asked.

"Seventy three," Neville said. "The day I was inducted." He stretched out his legs and examined his hands, raised before his face. "I can still hear Gran bitching at me to get the dirt out from under my nails, at least, before I disgraced our whole House and my parents' memory."

"I still can't believe she made it to the day. Or maybe I can. She always was that determined to see you reach your full potential."

"More like she was determined not to die before Dad did. She did process at some point- I don't know when – that he was never going to recover, though she never gave up ostensible hope, and certainly didn't intend to leave him to the mercies of the turnover at St. Mungo's. I never understood that, really, till Frankie was born." Frankie Alistair Augustine Longbottom was Neville and Hannah's only son, born long years after the rest of the children of his father's generation had ridden the boats to, and back, over Black Lake. He was the joy of their lives; a plain, simple man with wicked, wild knack for both pastry and the breeding of carnivorous orchids, and an even wilder one for Muggle investing . He'd been the first human in the history of the Gringott's banking system to be offered a position besides curse-bait (a more apt description, Bill Weasley had once said, for his actual job than curse _breaking_ ). The goblins even had a saying about him: 'shove knuts up the Longbottom and he'll shit out gold Galleons.'

"Yeah," Harry said, and sighed, and tucked his own skinny, eleven year old legs up. "Can Dumbledore sense he's been sacked, d'you reckon? On the one issue anyway?"

"Dunno. I do know that he hasn't moved Fluffy yet though even though Quirrell is gone, and I had to have a word with the staircases to make sure they understand that they're not to shovel certain – well, any - students to the third floor corridor at random. I don't suppose you could throw up a few of your pet wards for me around the area to ensure that anyone not certified as a teacher can find their way there via the standard routes?'

"Sure. I'll need to borrow your extra wand though. I need two for the finer weaves."

Frank Longbottom Sr's wand spun between them; he caught it easily. It sneezed at him rudely. He laughed at it as he got to his feet.

"Like father, like son," he said. "Come on, then. Let me show you a few tricks I've picked up since you last worked for the Auror Corps." He headed for the door, looking over his shoulder. Neville had conjured a footstool, and was sitting back, still as a grown man, examining his fingernails again.

"Thanks, Harry," he said, looking up. "It's good of you, you know? I l know how much Dash takes out of you when you're working through him."

"Just ask the House elves to make me a treacle tart for breakfast tomorrow. A whole one. They can disguise it as a quiche or something; I don't care, but I'll need the sugar to get through Double Potions after.

"Yeah," Nev sighed. "Do you have any idea how hard is to diet when all Beorn wants is to empty the table at every meal in preparation for winter? I don't even want to think about having to get out of bed every morning for classes when he decides it's time to hibernate.'

Harry laughed and ducked out, a wand in each hand and whistling in anticipation between his teeth even he transformed… When the door had sealed itself, Neville got to his feet and went to the south wall, moving several dozen photos aside till a singular large (empty) portrait was revealed. He knocked three times on the frame and stood back. The paint seemed to swirl into a vortex, evolving into a tunnel. Moments later…

"Headmaster," the deep, silky voice said as its owner stepped gracefully through, its black cloak swirling about it in an undeniably bat-like fashion.

"Headmaster," Neville Longbottom returned, inclining his head slightly. The two men stared at each other measuringly before Neville shook himself lightly. "Coffee?'

The newcomer nodded in assent, accepting the mug as it appeared. "That sweater is as hideous as ever," he observed. "I'd thought it was a trick of the painted eye, but apparently… It is not."

"You're as charming as you ever were, Severus," he said. "Whatever happened to "I want in on it, Longbottom; let me in on it, I'll do whatever it takes, I'm so damned tired of being dead, this coffee tastes like bollocks; I'll even be nice to you in Potions?"

"You _are_ eleven years old again, you puling brat, at least when you're outside this room. And Potions only comprises one portion of your week. Be warned."

Neville just laughed.

"Have a seat," he said. "She's on her way."

"And Potter is safely stashed?'

"He's installing some extra wards for me on the third floor to keep underage wanderers at bay. I can't believe that great git didn't even do that much."

"Now now." Severus Snape seated himself in Harry's vacated chair, sipping elegantly. "Show some respect. Or at least appropriately applied subterfuge. Did I teach you nothing over the years? You were an apt enough pupil once you stopped wetting yourself at the mere mention of my name."

"You really are a git, aren't you? I cannot believe that I actually agreed to offer up my blood to bring you, of all people, back to help. We had options, you know? People were lining up on both sides of the Veil to help us pull this off, once we recovered the Resurrection Stone and put out for volunteers, anyway."

"I was the greatest spy of any generation," Snape said dryly. "You need , and needed me, particularly since, at a hundred thirty nine now or not, Potter is as astoundingly dull, emotionally stunted, and self-absorbed as he ever was. He seems actually to be taking the chance to be eleven again _seriously,_ on both the conscious and subconscious level."

"We knew that would probably happen. It's the way his kind of chronically traumatized mind works."

"He's hardly the only individual to suffer from the aftereffects of an overly melodramatic childhood."

"No," Neville conceded. "But he's the one who came up with this plan in the first place, and agreed to go in effectively blind on the specific crucial details so that we might actually have a hope of pulling it off. And don't you go dropping any snide little hints on the hopes of messing with his head, Snape. I know you better than you think I do – your portrait painter was extremely comprehensive – and Harry's not the only one who could yet use a good Mind Healer."

"He's already thrown the plan, such as it was, completely off the rails! First Black, then Lupin..."

"First Lupin, _then_ Black," the second figure emerging from the tunnel corrected. "Honestly Sev, you've gotten so imprecise in your old age. Never mind the Death Eaters. I told you this would happen if you didn't get away from the dungeons and your potions fumes now and again."

Snape stood immediately, turning as the glamor on the nondescript, rather plain woman shifted. She grinned at him, stretching and shaking out her glory of dark red hair before bounding forth to offer him a tight hug, as well as a resounding smack on the head.

"That," she informed him, 'was from James. On principle, in advance of… this."

Neville actually blushed at the long, deep passionate embrace that followed. It went on, and on, and on, and at last, he had to revert pointedly to his eleven year old self, complete with striped pajamas, and step into their line of sight…They parted reluctantly.

"Nice feet," Lily Evans, nee Potter grinned as she bounded forward to hug him exuberantly before dropping to her knees before him and taking his face in her hands. "Oh, Neville. You're so gorgeous!"

"They keep me warm," Neville said awkwardly of his (apparent) bear slippers, and blinked at her owlishly. "Hello, Mrs. Potter. It's nice to meet you in person at last."

She hugged him again, hard.

"Aunt Lily,`she ordered. And never mind him. I like the orange sweater. It looks perfect on you."

"Do try to remember, Lily, that he is more than twice our ages when we died… Combined?'

"Weird," Lily pronounced as she got to her feet. "Where's Harry?'

"He's working." He looked up at Snape. "What's this? You never told me you two dated! I thought you just pined for her!"

"Oh we didn't," Lily reassured him. "Date, that is. We gave up our first kisses to each other though, when we were twelve, but that was it. I have to say, Sev; you've improved considerably since. Who have _you_ been practicing on?' She winked at him.

"Slag. You taste like Potter," he informed her dourly. "Never mind the fact that you've been back two years now. There are potions for that, you know. And toothpaste, and mouthwash, and oh yes, bleach for me."

She snorted. Loudly. It was a decidedly inelegant sound.

"Alright then," she said and threw herself in a chair, appearing obligingly beneath her. Her knees, Neville noticed, were as knobby as Harry's had ever been, and she had an ink spot on her left thumb, exactly where Harry's quill habitually pressed on his right. "What's the plan?'

'Get rid of the horcruxes," Neville obliged. "One down, five to go, by the way… Off He-Who-Should-Just-Give-Over-The-Name-if-He's-So –Embarrassed-By-His-Own-Youthful-Pretensions-That-He-Can't-Even-Stand-To-Hear-Anyone-Say-It-Anymore, and once this world is set to rights, get on with what we _really_ came to do."

"And what of Dumbledore?' Snape asked.

"You leave him to me," Lily said grimly. "I cannot _believe_ he wants to send Harry back to Petunia!"

"Are you going to invite me along when you have your word with her?' Snape inquired. "I have no love for your son; he's a thoroughly obnoxious prat no matter his age…"

"Hey! He has my eyes!"

"I haven't forgotten. If he hadn't, I might have been able to forget _you_ , and actually get on with my life."

"You didn't do too badly." She patted his knee. "I mean, okay, it was pretty horrid, but you did good things with it, and once we're done here, I intend to reward you for your martyrdom in extremely unapproved, thoroughly Muggle style."

'Aren't you married?' Neville asked.

"I was," Lily said. "But then we died. 'Till death do us part' and all; all debts paid, and James is good enough company, but he's not here, is he? Great prat; he actually accused me of cheating on the coin toss, never mind that if he'd been the one to come back, he wouldn't have been able to keep the secret from Remy or Siri for a second."

Snape shuddered. " _As_ I was saying," he said. "Be sure to invite me along when you've prepared to haunt Petunia for her sins. I have been in that portrait _far_ too long, and Longbottom here only let me out on the promise that I'd be civil to every resident within the wards of, quote-unquote, _his_ school. "

"Poor thing. You must be dying to punish someone properly." The wink was even more outrageous. Snape actually blushed.

"Will you two stop already?' Neville said, irritated. "It's bad enough that I have to sit across from the hall from my eleven year old wife in an eleven year old body three times a day, never mind sharing classes with her and pretending to hate my best friend…"

"You have to pretend to hate Harry?' Lily asked, puzzled. "Why? That wasn't part of the plan."

"He's not talking about your precious son," Snape sneered. "He's talking about Draco Malfoy."

"Luke and Cissy's boy? Really?'

"Luke and _Cissy_?'

"They mellowed a bit after they passed," she said. "So did I, I expect, and as for James, he's probably eating popcorn and making rude comments right now. Anyway. Horcruxes?'

"The diadem's done," Neville obliged. "And we think we've come up with a viable plan for the cup. That just leaves the diary and the ring and the locket. And Harry, of course."

"And Voldemort," she reminded him. "And the great big holes torn in our prettily established plot, never mind that bloody buggering weird wand. What's the story with that, Sev? Not to sound like… Well… You… but loose ends make hairy potions, and none of us want to be coughing up furballs at inopportune moments."

"Was she always like this?' Nevile said, bemused, to Snape. "Only I always got the impression that she was supposed to be this great self-sacrificing saint and paragon of womanhood and all. Combined with Helen of Troy, maybe, or the Dark Witch Morgana – there's no way that ritual she pulled off involved anything other than blood magic, no matter how Dumbledore goes on about hearts-and-flower power, after all."

"She was a girl," Snape said, surprisingly fondly as he looked at the irrepressible smirk on the freckled, pointed face before him. There were more freckles on the one cheek than the other, Neville noticed, so thickly sprinkled in one portion just on the left cheekbone that they made almost the shadow of a strawberry, and those ears… Yes, they were definitely candidates for Muggle pinning surgery. And it wasn't just her knees that were knobby; those elbows looked rather potentially painful as well. "My girl, even if she did have the horrifically appalling judgement to attach herself permanently to that oversexed, overcompensating moose."

"And that," Neville said. "Really _, really_ will be enough of that. Wand, Severus?'

"Fifteen inches," he said promptly, with a smirk of his own. "Black pine, rigid, with the core – and spirit – of a Hungarian Horntail."

"A Hungarian Horntail that happened to be married to Harry's Horntail," his successor pointed out, and at his professor's glare, and Lily's chortle (it sounded rather more like a donkey's bray) threw a third smirk into the mix. "What? I'm older than both of you put together, remember? "

Snape rolled his eyes.

"I don't know anything about the wand," he said, sobering. "It wasn't part of the plan, and frankly, the research that I've done on the implications of the particular combination are rather disturbing. The ritual we performed to bring us here relies on absolute balance, as you know: hence the fact that each of us returned on tone of the seasonal solstices, and I was certain we balanced the elements properly to choose an appropriate and perfect-to-the-point copy alter dimension of our timeline to work with, but the fact remains that that kind of wand doesn't exist in our version of this world. Amber isn't a substance that works there as an ingredient for core or shell; the molecular composition isn't compatible with the necessary magics. Here though… It's just different enough to make the almost unheard-of, yet still possible, difference."

"Well. Whatever it is, or does, or means, we'll work around it," Lily waved a hand. "First things first, we get on with … Everything else. I want to see my baby again, and I can't do that till we get rid of Tom and restore his proper memories and understanding of the situation, so chop-chop, boys. Let's get 'er done."

"Who knew," Snape said dryly to Neville. "They have American television programs in the afterlife. Please, Lily. Cannot you try to remember that, on this side of the Veil at least, you are yet British?"

"I'm American," Neville offered to her. "At least Beorn is. My Animagus," he said at his godmother's bemused look. "He's a Kodiak bear." He held up his feet in demonstration. "From Alaska. My great great great grandfather emigrated to England when he was sixteen."

"How nice," she said. "I'm very proud of you. I don't suppose you ever told him your Animagus form, Sev?'

"Lily…"

"Oh come on! It's adorable! I don't know why you're so ashamed to tell people!"

"And now you're just being annoying for the sake of it. How did I forget that unbecoming little habit of yours? It's one you share with your spawn, by the way, and if you don't stop, I _will_ take it out on him."

"Yeah well, if you would just stop glaring at him, and maybe even snarking at him, he might find it in himself to return the favor, mightn't he?"

"I have to get up in the morning," Neville said, rising to his feet. "Why don't you two catch up. I know we've all been back for two years now, but unless you've been breaking the rules to meet up before we were supposed to, I imagine you have a lot to say to each other. Things that I, in case it really, really isn't obvious, do not want to hear."

"Sleep well, darling," Lily said immediately, and rose to her feet to give him a hug. He hugged her back, smirking at Snape over her shoulder as, as an eleven year old, he pressed his cheek to the obvious and snuggled in. Snape glared. She petted his hair.

"I really do like the feet," she said. "You should show them to your mum sometime. She loved stuffed bears. She used to pile her dorm bed so high with her collection that there was barely room for her to sit, much less sleep."

He blinked up at her at that. "She did?'

"She did," she confirmed. "And… No joke, I swear on my magic… She named her favorite one Neville."

He hugged her hard, once, again, and almost ran out of the room. She sighed and sat on the chair again. Snape came to sit beside her, or rather, to pick her up and resettle her on his lap. She leaned against him, head on his shoulder.

"I've missed you, Snivellous," she said. "You great greasy git. Letters just haven't been enough.'

"I've missed you too, Lily," he said. "And you're right, they weren't. Haven't been. But for the sake of what we're trying to do…"

"You really care for him, huh?' she said, looking to the door.

"He is a good man," he said soberly. "A kind one. As good and kind as I never was. He made the world, and the school – _our_ school; it was mine too, for however short a time, and under whatever pretences – a better place, and he only ever wanted one thing in return. And by Salazar and Godric, Lily, we _will_ give it to him." He sighed, "As long as Harry doesn't screw it all up with his rediscovered reserves of adolescent angst, anyway."

"Yet another thing I'm going to blame Petunia for," she agreed. "God. I love the boy, I do, but he was _just_ like her the year he was fifteen. Whinge whinge, whine whine, woe is me, the world hates me, nobody understands me, why meeeeee…"

"When are you going back to see her?' he asked, linking his arms around her waist securely.

"Hallowe'en, of course," she said. "I don't suppose you have plans? Only the last thing James said to me was to tell you that you officially have his permission to 'go all Death Eater on her bony arse' on his behalf, and to be sure to enjoy it enough for both of you."'

"Did he now.'

"I did tell you he'd mellowed." She smiled a bit wistfully. "He even told me not to waste any second chances with you, can you believe it? Begrudgingly, but he did."

"I find that hard to believe.'

"We were teenagers, Sev. We were all teenagers, and walking ghosts besides, and we all knew it, and clung to whatever we had then just for something to hold onto. Now... We're not. Well, ghosts, yes, of a sort, but... Grown up ghosts, anyway. And this weird thing happen when you grow up, you grow _into_ that cliché that you really do just want the people you love to be happy."

"I suppose," he said. "One day at a time. As for Hallowee'en... we seem to have been pre-emptively rendered troll-free, so I should have no problems getting the night off."

"Hurray!" She kissed his hooked nose smackingly. "So. Tell me. Just who have you been practicing on again?'


	13. And He's Gone

**12:30 A.M**

 **The Third Floor Corridor**

The third floor corridor was dim and dusty, and the cold seeped unpleasantly through the stones into Harry's bare feet as he skimmed into a nearly blacked corner to transform... Out of the corner of his eye he spotted a silvery wisp and stood statue-still till it had turned another corner, then peered out cautiously as he assessed his options.

The wards he was about to cast were excellent – fantastic, even – but they had two disadvantages; they couldn't be cast while under the invisibility cloak, or under any other sort of similar spell for that matter, nor could they be cast with wandless magic. That meant he had to revert to his human form to do the work. For a moment he was tempted to make the threat moot in a distinctly more permanent fashion – old age and experience, never mind the plethora of small and helpless descendants that he'd cradled in his arms over the decades, had made him decidedly less sympathetic to Hagrid's notions than he'd been when he'd first met the man - but in the end, he just hitched up his pajama pants, cast a quick warming charm on both hands and feet and crept toward his first target: the grotty, orange-lit lantern just to the right of the first door on the opposite wall. Feeling rather an idiot, he let his fingers brush the stones there, and sent a silent message.

 _Potter here. I reckon Nev's told you about me. Keep everyone away, would you; this is going to take a bit, and I'd rather not have to explain myself to… Well. Anyone, really._

There was of course, no answer, and it could have been his hyperextended imagination, but still. He felt a bit reassured as he flexed his fingers and settled his feet. The amber wand in his right hand hummed, so low it was almost a growl… Frank Longbottom Sr's wand hiccuped at him again, rather snarkily. He examined it, startled, before remembering suddenly that this was a _Longbottom_ wand: an heirloom wand of _House_ Longbottom, and it probably appreciated the proper courtesies.

"Harry Potter," he whispered. "James and Lily's son. It's a long story, but I'm an Auror too, and your son Neville's mate, and he lent you to me so that I can install some special wards from the future that will make Dumbledore's pants twist. You in?'

The hiccup translated immediately to a sound that sounded remarkably like "Wheeeeee!" Harry snickered.

"Alright then," he said. He raised his hands, settled his thin shoulders, and, eyes fixed on the lantern before him, set to work.

 **7.30 AM**

 **Remus and Sirius' Quarters**

Hogwarts, Harry thought painfully as he lay face down on his guardians' bed and gritted his teeth against Remus' careful ministrations, might not be sentient, exactly, but she certainly had a mind of her own. The third corridor wards had taken just under an hour to set, and at the end of it, reassured that he'd not been spotted, quite content with the done job and very ready to head back to his bed, he'd headed, metaphorically whistling, off to Gryffindor Tower, only to find himself firmly rerouted. He'd tried to retrace his steps, only to be rerouted back again, and after the third attempt, a baker, up and about his business of setting the day's bread in the pre-dawn hours, had peered at him from over the frame of his portrait, and said…

"I don't think the castle thinks you're finished the job yet, dearie."

"Beg your pardon?'

"Well, you did such a lovely job on the third floor just now – I felt the adjustments all the way from my head to my toes, so I did; all us portraits did – that I think it's being suggested that you..." He waved a floury hand. "Mix in a bit more yeast in spots that aren't quite as self-rising as they could be?'

"Self- _rising_?'

"Muggle reference," the baker had said patronizingly. "Don't fret your inbred little brain over it; just stick to what you know. That's all we can ask of you."

"You're a Muggleborn?' Harry asked with interest. "Really? I'm a half-blood myself.'

"Half-blood's better'n half-baked, and of course I am. Word of advice, when you get onto mixing your starter, find yourself some fresh yeast. Your children's magics will be the all the sounder and heartier for it, and _that's_ God's honest truth."

"I will keep it in mind," Harry said. "So. Um. Where am I, and what does Hogwarts want me to do, exactly?"

"Lor' bless me _, I_ don't know, I'm sure! You're the fancy Wards Master, you figure it out." He peered again. "Bit young for it, aren't you?'

"I'm short for my age," the Wards Master in question said dryly, and just for the lark, did a quick scan of the room he'd landed in. His jaw dropped.

"What the… I'm standing right over the magical nexus point of the entire castle!"

"Of course you are. Where else would you be? Easier to fix everything at the source than to carry you around and patch plasters everywhere, isn't it?"

"Fix… _Everything_?'

"Dumbledore's alright," the baker said kindly. "But he's not much for the finer bits and bobs when it comes right down to it; he thinks that no one would dare attack the place with his arse on the throne, and Dippet was the result of fourteen straight generations of cousin-on-cousin action. The place hasn't had its dough turned since Phineas Nigellus was in charge, and he was no great shakes either, if only because he wouldn't hire anyone with a genetically original thought in their heads."

"Huh. Um. Alright then." He scanned again. "You know there's not anything actually wrong with the wards, right?'

"I'm a baker. Of course I don't. Go on, then," he said encouragingly. " Just play with the recipes here and there, and see what comes up. I daresay that's all Hoggy wants you to do, really. She's a lady; she appreciates a new outfit as much as any other, I'm sure."

Harry sighed and hunkered down, conjuring a ball of what looked like bluebell flame but most definitely wasn't, and launched it at the nexus point. Seconds later, neat little lines began to vomit forth, and a revolving miniature map of the castle began to form, the main ward lines neatly labelled in somewhat gothic printing. The secondaries and tertiaries followed; he prowled around, examining them and poking here and there. At one point, a heavily cross-hatched section squeaked and pulled away from his finger, trembling. He frowned and looked closer.

"What's going on here," he said, and then… "Well, bugger me. _That's_ not on."

"What is?' the baker asked, looking up from where he was piping hot cross buns. "Or rather, isn't?'

"Somebody's rewoven the wards here to…" He stuck his tongue out of the corner of his mouth, held a wand up in each hand, and began to untangle the ley lines, rearranging the pattern in which six of the strands lay over each other. When he was finished, he looked closer again.

"That should do it," he said. "Oop, bit of blood there, let's just…" He pointed with the amber wand. Nothing seemed to happen, but then, every pipe on the left side of the castle seemed to whine and rumble at once.

"Oi!" the baker said alarmed. "No messing with the plumbing! They don't teach vanishing spells till fourth year now!"

"No worries," Harry reassured him. "It's just the castle's instinctive reactive instinct to what I just did. Kind of like sympathetic yawning, but … Not."

"And what did you just do?'

"Unraveled a curse that someone set by crossing a few relevant wardlines in the shape of a hex," he said."He didn't actually change the wards at all, just changed the way they reacted to the magical signature of anyone signing a magical contract on a specific position, and sealed the results with his blood. Anyone signing on without his magical signature would be forcibly ejected by the wards after a predetermined period of time… In this case, ten months."

"How very strange," the baker commented, and then, struck… "You don't mean…"

"Mm. Now, that being said… Why wouldn't anyone have picked up on that before? It's not exactly an advanced technique, or a difficult solution." He poked again. The entire net of castle-shaped lines shimmered. The amber wand snarled. Frank Longbottom's wand hissed disapprovingly. Harry sat back on his heels. There were some things, he reflected, that Notice-Me-Nots were just not intended to do, much less on that scale... Tom had been _determined._ And _pissed_. Out of the corner of his eye, he couldn't help but notice that the painted bakery was beginning to attract more than a few interested 'customers'.

"Harry _Potter_!" a familiar voice said indignantly. "What are you doing this side of the portrait hole this time of night? You're supposed to be in bed! Ooh, wait till I tell…"

"You're not going to tell anybody anything, Violet," the baker snapped. "None of you are. He's on Hogwarts' business, he is, by order of the Headmaster – the Oathsworn one, not the other one, and so help me…"

Violet, the boon companion of the Fat Lady, subsided, grumbling.

"Thanks," Harry said. "I appreciate that.

"Not a problem, Wards Master. Anything we can help with?' he asked. "Such as we are?'

"I'm not actually a Wards Master," he said. "I mean, I could be, but I never actually got around to taking the exams. Somehow, something always seemed to come up at the last minute that required me to. You know. Cast actual wards somewhere important instead. Some of my Aurors were a bit disappointed by my emphasis on the protective arts rather than my kill-maim-destroy approach, but let's face it, when a Dark Wizard can't get in to kill you, you don't die. Case in point…." He stood, flicking away the wide-scale Notice-Me-Not as so much fairy dust, lifted his arms, a wand in each hand, and began to conduct rapidly, in a smooth, continuous series of movements that continued one on from the other like flowing water.

"Ooh, la," one of the young Regency maidens from the fifth floor said, impressed. "Don't he look like he's dancing! Ten thousand a year and _I'd_ marry him, yes I would!" She cocked her head. "When he grows a bit anyway. And dies, and has his picture done. Are you betrothed, milord?"

"Technically no," Harry said, eyes fixed on his work and hands flying. "I don't think so. Not in the legal sense, considering that we haven't even met yet, but when it comes right down to it, and for my own good health should she ever hear of this conversation at any point… Yes. Afraid so. Very much so."

"That doesn't sound promising," the Regency maiden said disapprovingly. "An amiable wife is a gift beyond measure, milord. From the tone of that last, your prospect sounds a bit of a harridan."

"She can be, but she's my harridan, and I'm her Harry, and it's going to take more than a missed train, or a caught one, for that matter, to change that."

The amber wand hummed approvingly, even as it sweated. The Regency maiden swooned, landing on top of the hot cross buns, recovering immediately and crying out in indignation at her ruined muslin.

 **Back in the Present**

"Ow," he gritted as Remus helped him roll on his back, and prodded his shoulders gently. "Ow, ow, ow, ow OW!" That last degenerated into a pained roar. Remus poked at him a bit more for good measure, and sat back on the edge of the bed to regard him closely.

"You know, Harry," he said. "Far be it from me to sound the suspicious and disapproving step-guardian, but I can't help but notice that the strain in these particular muscles correspond exactly to where a bird might have pain had he... Hmm. Overextended himself on an ill-advised and incidentally forbidden weeknight flight?"

"Yeah, pup," Sirius said, sitting opposite. "You didn't go outside, did you? I mean… What Remus said: _bad_ godson, and if I had a newspaper I'd smack your nose, but only, Scotland's wicked gusty at this time of year, and Dash isn't exactly built to battle the elements."

"I didn't go outside," Harry said, perfectly truthfully.

"Outside the castle or outside the portrait hole?'

"You never said that I couldn't transform during the week," he pointed out. "Just that I couldn't use the invisibility cloak. And I didn't. And I didn't transform inside the tower, don't worry. Nobody saw me."

Remus sighed. "Here's a hint for you, cub," he said. "You know when it goes all dark outside? That's when you're supposed to sleep." He picked up his wand and tapped it against his palm. A thick, cinnamon-scented orange salve eased out; he put the wand aside and began to smooth it over Harry's back. Slowly, the movements translated into a gentle, deep massage. Harry nearly melted into the mattress.

"Bloody buggering bollocks," he moaned. "That feels fucking fantastic; don't stop, Gin…"

The hands stilled.

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Potter?'

"I meant, that feels really nice, _Rem,_ please don't stop?'

This time it was Sirius' turn to sigh.

"Look, Harry," he said, obviously trying to sound rational and/or paternal. "I know you're upset about seeing a Mind Healer; Merlin knows I wasn't too thrilled when they told me that I couldn't get custody of a gnat, much less you, without the full treatment there, but.. Take it from me, okay? They're really not that bad. I mean, they leave you with your soul and everything! "

"I don't mind seeing a Mind Healer," Harry said, neo-petulantly. "I just don't like being informed of the fact, rather than consulted on it. I mean, it _is_ my mind, yeah? Even if Voldemort is stuck to it?"

The hands stilled again.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Well, technically he's stuck to my scar," Harry said. "A bit of him, anyway. His _soul_. It broke when he tried to murder me; apparently it's not good for structural integrity on that metaphysical level ." He rolled over and looked up at their puzzled, horrified faces. "Wait, didn't you know? Professor Dumbledore does; he has for ages. Ever since the night it happened, or didn't he tell you?"

"WHAT?" Sirius roared. "He… _WHAT?_ THAT…"

"Hold up, hold up," Remus said. "Harry, that is an _extremely_ serious accusation, never mind an extremely strange …" He floundered. "Supposition. How… What…"

"I was talking to Moaning Myrtle," he said innocently, and again perfectly truthfully. Confunding a ghost wasn't _nearly_ as simple as Confunding a human, but it was definitely possible. "In the bathroom last night. She said she was passing through the turn by the Headmaster's loo and heard him talking to himself about it, when. He was. You know. He reckons that the only way to get it out of me is to kill me, and _she_ reckons that that's why he wants custody. She said she's really worried, he doesn't care much about the students, she thinks, after all, he's never even come to her to ask her how she died when she was murdered fifty years ago, and _that_ was by the thing that came out of the Chamber of Secrets. He just helped blame Hagrid for it, and anyone and everyone should have known right off it wasn't him, because the monster he was hiding was a baby acromantula, and all the students hurt before Myrtle were petrified. Acromantulas don't petrify things; it says so in Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them. They just sting them and wrap them up and eat them. Or rather, suck out their blood and vital _flu_ ids." He finished off that statement with a rather disgusting schlurping sound. Remus and Sirius stared at him, white-faced.

"You have a bit of Voldemort's soul stuck in your scar," Sirius repeated carefully. "And Dumbledore knows, and Moaning Myrtle heard him say that the only way to get rid of it – and therefore Voldemort, entirely – is to… _Kill_ you?'

"Yeah, I know, right?" Harry said plaintively. "I know we can't tell the Ministry this, or use it in the custody case, they'd go nutters and probably offer me up themselves, but there's got to be _something_ we can do. I mean, it's not like it talks to me in his voice or anything, but honestly, I used to like my scar, and now I just feel kind of icky. And of course I don't want to die," he added hastily. "That goes without saying."

"Do you think Miss Myrtle would talk to us?' Remus asked. "Privately?'

"Oh yes. I told her that you'd probably be in to see her today at some point. She's very excited; she said she doesn't mind being a ghost anymore, really, but it still really bothers her that no one thought her important enough even after she was not-dead to ask her her opinion on what happened the night she died. Only she _was_ right _there,_ right?'

"Don't take this the wrong way," his godfather said. "But why aren't you screaming in horror? I mean… I supposed icked is an appropriate response, but still. I don't think I'd be nearly as rational. In fact I can guarantee I wouldn't be."

"Well, it's not like I feel any different than I did yesterday," Harry said reasonably. "I mean… I'm still me. I thought about it; I've got a whole soul, right? There's no way he can fit into it, to change it. All he can do is sit there and. Well. Sit there. At least this way we know where he is."

"I vote we take him out of school now," Sirius said to his lover. "Now. Out of this school, and out of the country, to _another_ country, where that …. _person_ … has no say."

"He's the Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards," Remus pointed out. "There is no country where he has no even if we did manage it, that still doesn't solve the real problem, which is how to get great bloody You-Know-Who unstuck from our child's _head!"_

"Without killing me," Harry added. " As I said, and to reiterate… I'd really prefer that."

"You are not going to die. I won't allow it. Though, that being said… Take heart on this much at least; there are definitely no Mind Healers in your near future, pup. We definitely don't need these kind of complications on record."

Remus flopped back, most inelegantly, and stared up at the canopy.

"I _am_ going to kill Dumbledore," he announced. "After this is all over. Painfully. I know how, and okay, I'm not a werewolf anymore, but that just means I'll be able to remember what I did to him once I'm done doing it. "

"I still have all those old homework assignments my mother gave me," Sirius offered. "I totally failed the practicals, but that was only because I refused to try them, not because I couldn't _do_ them." He sat down beside Harry, stretching out his legs, and pulled him into his arms. "Don't you worry, pup. We're going to get all this sorted out. No, Remus and I are going to sort this out for you." He kissed his forehead gently, directly on the scar. "I just want you to do one thing for us, okay?'

"What?'

"Talk to us when you're scared? You don't have to pretend to be brave with us; we're both well familiar with pants-wetting fear – I daresay we're all feeling a bit of it right now, despite our smooth and soothing parental demeanors and your suave 'nothing doth ruffle me but my hair' Potter genes, and we're certainly never going to look down on you for your acquaintance there."

"I won't. I mean... I will." He leaned against him (gingerly) and watched as Remus got up, going to the trunk at the foot of the bed and retrieving the invisibility cloak. "What's this?'

"We can't just leave," the ex-were said. "But I'll be damned if we'll leave you unprotected. Carry it with you everywhere, Harry, and if you're backed into a corner and we're not about… Use it as appropriate, and if you can't… Transform. Transform and get to my office, and get the hell out." He dug for another item: a tiny packet of oddly colored floo powder. "This stuff's untraceable – every grain is bound to our particular Fidelius wards at Cŵn-y-Cwm. Don't lose it; it was bloody hard to enchant, and involves processes that parts of me really would prefer not to go through again."

"At... What? "

"Cŵn-y-Cwm." He pronounced it carefully. "Valley of the Dogs. Give it a go; the English translation won't work."

Harry repeated obediently, several times till they were sure he had it right.

"Good." Remus sat down beside him anxiously, and petted his hair. Even as he did so, a house-elf popped in, wringing its own hands anxiously.

"I is sorry, Professor Loopy," it said. "I is sorry, Professor Paddy… But Professor Dumbly is calling a staff meeting. About…" He darted a look at Harry. "The third floor!"

That last was a terrified whisper. Remus sat up straight.

"Do not tell me," he said. "Do _not_ tell me!"

"Nobody is hurt," the elf hastened to reassure him. "But.. " It lowered its voice again dramatically. "Nobody is getting _in_! And nobody is getting _out!_ "

"Ooh, I got that one! Charlie and the Chocolate Factory!" Harry enthused. "I loved that book! I actually had to sneak it out of Dudley's room; it's probably the only one he ever read all the way through because of the descriptions of the … candy…" He trailed off. The elf looked at him blankly. Remus grinned at him fleetingly.

"Why would he think anyone – or thing – getting out is a bad thing?' Sirius asked, perplexed. "Considering what's in there, and all?'

"I is just delivering the message, Professor Paddy," the house-elf said, tone switching from dramatic to prim so fast it was dizzying. "That is what he said."

"Drama queen." Sirius heaved himself up with a grunt. "Alright, Harry, You can have a lie-in till lunch, but after this… Your stupidity is on your head. To the point," he added hastily. "I mean, we'll always be there to rescue you. Just not to bail you out. Unless you've been unjustly imprisoned in Azkaban, or justly imprisoned, for that matter, because let's face it, it's just no place for a growing boy."

"Indeed," Remus agreed. "Though just on principle, and since it's my class you'll be missing… I'll be expecting an extra foot on the essay I assign this weekend. Of original thought, mind you: no stacking up on quotes to fill the extra."He stroked the boy's hair as he shifted gingerly. "I'll bring you up an early lunch on my break. Requests?'

"Yes. Lots of everything, with treacle tart, and marmalade pud, and chocolate cake, and…"

"I get the idea. Bring him some breakfast now, will you, Titchy," he said to the house-elf. "The full English, plus fruit , buttered oatcakes, and extra bangers."

"And your special juice, Master Harry?' the elf asked.

"Special juice?' Sirius asked as he tugged on his robes and shouldered his satchel of teaching materials.

"It's a Muggle brand," Harry lied hastily.

"Called _double espresso breve_ ," the elf pronounced carefully, and beamed. "Charmed orange and pulp free; three sugars, light cream! Is that being right, Master Harry?'

"Um," Harry said at Remus' raised eyebrow – it was of course, far too much to expect that a man so intimately acquainted with the taste, texture and efficacy of every brand of chocolate over the British Isles would have no similar affinity for coffee– "Four this morning, please?'

The elf bobbed and disappeared.

"I'm sure Voldemort hates it," he offered the eyebrow. "I mean… It's hardly really _British_ , is it? And what kind of Pureblood would choose it over tea?"

"I'm going to my meeting now," his second guardian informed him. "And for the record, you _will_ be talking to _someone_ , young man. You may think yourself a big, bold, brave Gryffindor now, but there are yet limits. I have limits, and for the record, and once I have confirmed things with Myrtle.. . You _will_ begin to suffer the realities there."

The door closed behind the two men with a not-quite bang. Harry slumped and winced. Even as he did so, a rat-tat-tat sounded at the window… He heaved himself up painfully and went over, opening the case to greet a huge, fierce and rather scarred and windblown owl. It held out its leg imperiously. Harry untied the letter (rather scorched around the edges) and pushed over the little bowl of owl treats on the side-table.

 **HARRY POTTER c/o RON WEASLEY AS NECESSARY**

 **HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY**

 **SCOTLAND**

The handwriting was wrenchingly familiar. He had to sit down to catch his breath. When he had…

 _ **Dear Harry**_ , Charlie's familiar, never-quite-forgotten scrawl read.

 _ **It's good to meet you! Ron wrote me and said that your History of Magic professor has assigned you each a term project, and that yours is on the evolution of wand-making, and you chose it because your own wand is kind of weird. Those are his words, by the way, not mine. He said that you have an amber with the core of a Horntail – mine is Giant Lupuna with Peruvian Vipertooth. It's weird too, but that's another story. Anyway, Ron said that your professor said that the best place to start when trying to understand wands is to look up your own, and asked me to tell you everything I know about your core, so… Here goes.**_

 _ **Hungarian Horntails are nasty. Stay away from them, as long as they're alive. Really, I mean that. I have scars that I'll never get over. That being said, they're very nice underneath – as long as you're another dragon. Other dragons like having a Horntail around because they are such effective guardians of their territory, and Horntails like having other dragons in their territory because they bring them food in exchange for not killing them. It's like a tithing system, and it works out well for the Horntails at least, because if they don't get enough food, they can always eat their neighbors. They don't, often, it's bad politics, but the other dragons know it's a possibility, and Horntails are by nature big drama queens, so it keeps everybody (including the dragon tamers!) on their toes.**_

 _ **Horntails are probably the longest lived species out there – it's really, really hard to kill them till their scales weaken enough from age to be vulnerable to magic. So they have been known live over eight hundred years. The oldest harvested body on**_ **record** _ **was nine hundred thirty one years old – there are magic s that can date them - but not all harvested bodies do go on record, and that one died over fifty years ago. If Ollivander has made your wand since, and your Horntail was really the oldest one in Europe, yours had to be pushing a thousand. I'll ask around and try to find out if anyone knows anything, but that might not work out. Certain heartstrings are best given under certain conditions, with the consent of the dragon while it's still alive, and those species often make bargains with wandmakers, that they have to dispose of their other remains according to dragon traditions. That**_ **doesn't** _ **mean slicing them up and selling them for boot-soles, for the record.**_

 _ **Horntails are monogamous. They only have one mate, ever. They can (don't tell Mum I told you this) have sex with other dragons, before or after their chosen mate dies, but it's never with another Horntail, and there are never eggs from it. Their blood doesn't match anything but one of their own, I guess. When they do pick a mate, and the females lay eggs, there are a lot of them at once – as many as two dozen. That being said, each female only lays two or three times in her life, and only two or three eggs ever hatch. They are, honestly, the scariest buggers alive while they're waiting to see how many make it, and it's suicide to try and steal them from the nest. Really suicide, and a really unpleasant way to go besides, so not many try it.**_

Harry lowered the letter, suddenly seeing the events of his former fourth year in a whole new light. He had to take a whole series of deep, controlled breaths before continuing.

 _ **There's a legend I heard once – that the Horntail's soul is actually a physical thing, and is contained in its heartstring. If that's true, it would be interesting to put in your essay, because legend also says that any creature that only mates once in its life does it, not like humans do, who have a choice, but because when they do find their mate, their souls are magically bound. So, any wand that has a heartstring from a Horntail – and they aren't common at all; they're best given freely like I said, and Horntails aren't much for conversation or negotiation – would have, if that Horntail had mated, the influence and power of**_ _ **two**_ _ **heartstrings/souls fuelling it, not one. One would be dominant, of course, but the other is still definitely there, and that's what makes some Horntail wands so volatile, really: not that they're bad-tempered, but that you're dealing, again, with**_ **two** _ **of them. If what is Ron said is true, and your dragon's mate is in someone else's wand inside the castle– yes, he told me about that, and don't worry, he didn't say who –w ell. Good luck to you, and I hope you like the person as a friend at least, because your wands are going to want to get back together for regular snogging sessions. I don't know how that will work, but at the very least, I expect that you'll grow to want to be friends with the person with your wand's match, if only because your two wands will want to make it happen. They'll try to arrange it, and facilitate it, and since they're intelligent – yes, I said INTELLIGENT: Horntails are smarter than most people I know; they just dumb it up for their own protection– and aware (souls don't die, after all, even Dementors can't kill them, they just trap them inside themselves to power their breeding abilities, and that's what makes the Ministry tolerating them so horrible: Perce says the first thing he's going to do when he becomes Minister is cut THAT off, and good for him, I say; he's a ponce, but he understands the important things when he tries) you've got no hope, really. Good luck, and if you feel like keeping me updated, I promise I'll keep whatever you tell me to myself. I don't want to share, I just want to know.**_

 _ **Yrs. v. sincerely,**_

 _ **Charles S. Weasley**_

 _ **P.S. If you do write back, just call me Charlie.**_

 _ **P.P.S. Oh yeah. I almost forgot. If your wand does have a match, and the match is as strong as you think it might be, and it probably is if you can sense it the way Ron thinks… You might not want to talk about it. The Unspeakables would confiscate both in a second. You see, dragon heartstrings are harvested after their dragon's body is dead, but … there have been a few wands made with heartstrings that the dragons have donated**_ **while they're still alive.** _ **If that's the case here,**_ _ **your dragon and its mate would probably have decided to be live donors together, at the chance of finding each other again and cheating death, and**_ **live** _ **heartstrings… I can't tell you how powerful they are. The only story I've ever heard of a more powerful heartstring is a variation on that old tale of the Elder Wand, where the heartstring (most translations say tail hair, but that's not as exciting) was donated by a live Thestral – the King of the Thestrals, in fact. I'm not sure how that would have worked, considering that Thestrals are by very definition at least half-dead, but there you are. That's why it's a tale, I guess. If your wand core was from a living. mated donor, to be honest, the amber shell only makes sense. I'm not sure that anything**_ **but** _ **amber could contain such a string for more than a couple of years at a go. Two souls for one, remember, and it would**_ _ **need**_ _ **the mental shielding that amber provides around it to protect its owner from being overly influenced.**_

 _ **P.P.P.S. The owl's name is Smaug. He belongs to the Reserve, but he doesn't really like his job. He does like bangers though, so if you have any on hand, it'll ease the insult.**_

Harry looked around. Sure enough, Smaug had progressed from the owl treats straight to the extra plate of sausage.

"Hang on then," he said, and making his painful way back to the bed, fetched up parchment, quill and ink from Remus' night table, and began to scrawl.

 _ **Dear Charlie,**_

 _ **Thank you for your letter. It was very nice of you to write back so soon. I'm sure all the information you gave me will help me with my essay.**_

He paused, chewing the quill indecisively.

 _ **I will be happy to tell you what happens, but it is going to be interesting because though I don't really mind the person we are talking about, they are older, in Slytherin and don't like**_ _ **me**_ _ **. I will tell you more when I get some of those charmed envelopes that don't let anybody but the writer and the person the letter is meant for read what's inside.**_

 _ **Have you ever heard of the kind of thing you told me about talking to you? With a girl's voice? Maybe a girl that you know?**_

 _ **Also, I would like to hear the story of your wand. It doesn't sound like anything I saw at Ollivander's at all. Did he make it?**_

 _ **Smaug is okay. He is eating my breakfast sausage right now. I will use another owl the next time – Sirius and Remus told me they'd get me one if I wanted one - and you can keep it till you write back. I don't have anybody else to write to, so it won't matter, and if I do, I'll just use a school owl.**_

 _ **Sincerely, Harry J. Potter (Harry)**_

 _ **P.S. If you don't want people to know who you're writing to, you can address your next letter to Dash. It was my nickname at my old school, because I'm really fast. You might want to, because I found out that sometimes people try to make my mail go to them, so they can see what other people are writing to me about. It's weird. Do you have a nickname?**_

 _ **HJP**_

He rolled the letter up tightly, attached it to the begrudgingly offered leg, and patted the owl on the head.

"Charlie Weasley," he directed. "No stops, and if anyone tries to intercept, peck their eyes out."

The owl hooted in response around its mouthful of sausage, and launched itself out the window. Harry watched it go, and retrieved the letter, rereading it... He chewed his lip indecisively, then rolled it up, tying it off with a thread of parchment tassel.

"Titchy?' he called.

There was a moment's pause, then a crack of displaced air.

"Master Harry," the house-elf said. "Is you finished?'

"Not quite," Harry said. "I was wondering, though, whether you'd deliver this to Professor Snape for me?"

"Professor Snape is being in the meeting with the other Professors right now," the elf said. "He is not liking being interrupted."

"Well, keep it safe till he's out of the meeting," Harry said patiently. "And give it to him then. Tell him it's from Potter."

"Is that being all?'

"Yeah. He'll understand when he reads it. Don't wait for a reply unless he tells you to."

"Yes, Master Harry." Titchy popped out with another crack. Harry eased himself down. Eleven-year-old arms, he reflected, were not meant for six straight hours of adult-level double-casting – and he was pretty damned sure that Hogwarts wasn't done with him yet. He'd got the definite impression that now that she'd got a taste of his skills, she wouldn't want just the one dress, but an entire new wardrobe.

On the other hand, he couldn't _wait_ till Dumbledore realized what he'd done to the gargoyle outside his office.

He pulled his tray over carefully, and began to eat.


	14. Follow Him Down

**September 20, 1991**

 **Bellatrix Lestrange's Farewell Party**

 **London**

The funeral was small and apologetic, and the mourners seemed to consist largely of people whose main regret was that the guest of honor was so late at arriving to the scene. Practiced impassivity, rather than sorrow, was the order of the day, and even Narcissa Malfoy, the deceased's favored sister, looked more relieved than otherwise.

The casket – crassly, perhaps, but Pureblood traditions were nothing if not self-interested - was open, for no member of any of the families comprising the Sacred Twenty Eight was ever crossed off the relevant family tree without the confirming signatures of the guests-in-the-book as legal witnesses to the fact that the deceased was, indeed, present and accounted for. That way, Sirius had informed Harry, any inconveniently taxable sins that might come back to haunt the living heirs were thoroughly interred with the body. Andromeda Tonks was there, unaccompanied by her husband and daughter, and her regal form, strong features and sleek, pitch-black hair gave more than one bystander entering the hired parlor a start… The resemblance between her and Bellatrix was remarkable: the major difference being that Bellatrix had been physically tiny in life and Andromeda just skimmed six feet.

"That's just creepy," Ron muttered as the three boys skulked under the cloak in the back corner of the parlor. "I don't see why she doesn't use glamours or something. Who'd want to look like that cow?'

"She was born first," Neville pointed out. "If anything, the cow looked like her." He craned his neck discreetly as Augusta, impassive and as imposing as anyone there, approached the corpse on the dais and pulled out her wand. Narcissa started, alarmed, and even the morticians and ministry officials looked a little worried, but Harry immediately recognized the incantations she was chanting (it was nothing so subtle as murmuring) as those used to confirm the genetic identification of (most commonly) fallen family members compromised beyond recognition. Again, the boys watched as Andromeda stepped forward, pulling out a single strand of her hair, and offered it to the Matriarch Longbottom… Augusta took the hair, and performed a few more movements. A bright, small flash sparked, and the old woman stepped back, nodding.

"Confirmed," she announced, to no one in particular, though her eyes flicked, nevertheless, to the boys' corner. Not once had she looked into the casket itself.

Sirius came forward then, to take her arm and lead her out of the parlor. The three boys shuffled after him, and into the side chamber. Three heads – one black, one blond, and one fiery red – popped into view, hovering bizarrely before the rest of them followed. Augusta released Sirius arm gently and came over to take Neville's face in both her hands, kissing his forehead regally.

"Longbottom is satisfied," she announced. "For the moment. Two down, two to go."

"Don't we get to pi… I mean, wee on her?' Ron said plaintively. "Mum says she was reported in the party that killed my uncles too, and even if it was never actually confirmed, I was looking forward to that bit!"

"You're an idiot, Ron," a feminine voice said scathingly, and from under a second, considerably smaller, invisibility cloak, a bushy brown head popped out. "The invitation was for _symbolic_ weeing, honestly!"

"I assure you, it was not," Augusta said, and provided Sirius, each of the boys, and Hermione herself, with a sizable vial. "The loo's right there, Neville. Each of you follow, and once the casket is interred for good, the contents of your vials will automatically Vanish themselves to the interior. That bitch will be soaking in it for all eternity."

"How very revolting." Sirius kissed her cheek. Under the vast network of wrinkles and stern, she dimpled at him as the girl she once was. "Rem sent a bit too. Alright, he's an ex-werewolf, but the principle still stands."

"How sweet of him." She watched as the children trooped obediently, one after the other, into the facilities. "It's good to have you back, Sirius. I never did believe that tripe they spouted on your betraying the Potters, you know. Your lot made my Frank's life as a prefect …" She paused. "Challenging… but he always said, as did poor Alice, that there were no more faithful friends than James, you, and your husband."

"Not Peter?"

" _Him_ , they never liked." Her nose twitched in faint disgust. "A panderer, Alice called him, and in the end… What can you expect from a pig but a grunt? No, I told Minister Bagnold that they'd made a mistake there, but what do I know? I'm old, and she just patted me on the head and reminded me that you'd confessed yourself." Her iron gaze turned to him full on. "In the future young man, do remember to phrase your legal statements more precisely? The staff of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement has never been known for its capability to discern between melodrama and metaphor, and remarks such as "It was all my fault, I killed them" even when offered in the grieving and unbelieving moment, do not tend to help your cause."

"I will keep it in mind," he said, and bowed as Harry emerged, rinsed and dried vial in hand.. Augusta Longbottom tucked in neatly in her purse. The rest followed, and when all was settled, she took Sirius' arm again.

"I find myself a bit peckish," she announced. "Shall we?"

"We shall," Sirius said. "Remus will meet us there."

"Excellent. I presume he's making the Other Arrangements?'

"He owled this morning;" Sirius confirmed. "The take-away from the curry shop off Diagon will be ready by the time we're finished, and will be delivered to St. Mungo's by the time we get there."

"Well done," she said. "Frank does like his masala, and your mother would never forgive us, Neville, if we came without papadums."

"DIagon Alley has a curry shop?" Hermione asked. "Really?'

"No," Sirius said. "But the Muggle curry shop right across from the Leaky, on the Muggle side, has a wizard for an assistant manager. Pay's shite, but the goblins at Gringotts have him on a nice little side-contract for his regular delivery services. Alright, grab a hold of the Portkey, everyone." He extracted a sleek fedora from somewhere inside his robes. "On the count of…" His pocket chimed. He held up a finger, and dug out a familiar mirror. "Hey Moonblossom, what's up?'

"My blood pressure," Remus said grimly. "Dumbledore's invited himself along for lunch."

"Excuse me?'

"He says he wants to pay his respects to Madam Longbottom."

"To… Paying one's respects is one thing, but one does not simply… Has the man no _couth_? " Madame Longbottom said indignantly. Even Ron looked taken aback. "To intrude without invitation on such an ostensibly delicate occasion… Who does he think he _is?_ "

"Madam Longbottom." Remus sketched a half bow. "I do apologize. I tried to dissuade him, but he is not be dissuaded."

"It's alright, Gran," Neville said unexpectedly. "It's not about us, really. He's just trying to get dirt on Harry, or rather on his guardians for the custody case. It's pretty obvious, isn't it, but it's to his shame, not ours, and nobody of any proper breeding could ever think otherwise. We'll just… rise above it."

His Gran's eyes rested on him, surprised, and with surprised approval. Harry couldn't help but be amused and a little unsettled. "Breeding" he knew, at least in Neville's world-view, had nothing whatsoever to do with blood, but still. He'd even got the latter-yeared Draco's self-deprecating, pompous little smirk of an _accent_ down.

"Well said, Neville," she said, and then, musing… "He'll offer to pay for the meals for everyone, of course, as a polite nod to the inconvenience… Under normal circumstances, Sirius, you would refuse of course, but this time… Hmm… How to manage it…"

"Hermione's a Muggleborn," Ron said helpfully. "It's to be expected she wouldn't know our traditions. Maybe you could use her?"

"I may be a Muggleborn, but that doesn't mean I'm inherently uncivilized _, Ronald_ ," Hermione snapped. She tilted her nose up and sniffed. "My manners are as good as anyone's, I'll have you know, and my parents would rather have their wisdom teeth removed without anest _hesia_ before they'd presume on someone else's social engagements like that!"

"I have no idea who Anna Thesa is," Ron said. "But I wasn't trying to insult you, Hermione. Blimey, I was just saying; there are countries that have different traditions from us, Perce says, not worse, just different, and I just thought…" He fumbled "I dunno. I don't know anything about Muggles, but they're obviously different, right?'

"Yes," she conceded after a moment, and the nose lowered a bit. "We can be. But not _that_ different. Not on the _important_ things."

"Be that as it may," Augusta Longbottom said firmly. "Your idea has definite merit, Mr. Weasley. You are a child, Ms. Granger, and I think your bright lovely smile and an "Isn't that ever-so-nice, Headmaster; don't you think so, Professor Black" would be considered a _faux-pas_ that could easily be attributed to your age rather than your heritage." She patted the girl's arm. "I know it goes against your every instinct and obviously proper training, dear, but you really would be doing me a favor. I'd slap him silly for the presumption myself, but he knows I know better, and let's be honest, I'm not really in any position to plead undue grief as my excuse."

"I'm just leaving now," Remus said from the mirror, resigned. "Oop, here he comes."

"I hope he splinches himself," Hermione muttered. "Honestly. I'm embarrassed for him!"

"Don't bother," Sirius advised. "Let's just concentrate on enjoying our lunch and running up the bill. As the most promising students in your year, I would certainly say you deserve the fun..."

The exquisitely appointed French café that they attended was, surprisingly (or perhaps not, the occasion considered) in Paris. Sirius landed neatly, catching the tumbling children like a row of queasy dominos, and set them upright just in time to catch an incoming Remus's eye in a sympathetic furious grimace as the History of Magic professor gallantly straightened Augusta.

"Bienvenue, Madam," he said in his soft Welsh accent, and bowed deeply. "It's an honor. "

"Indeed," she returned, and straightening her vulture hat, looked him over with a sharp and blushingly appreciative eye. "Hmm. Still as fit as the Fates seem to have allowed you, Lupin?'

"He's still cured, if that's what you mean," Neville said. "Honestly, Gran! How is _that_ polite?'

"He's your teacher, Neville," she returned. "Considering how lax the old goat seems to be on even the most fundamental rules of prudent society these days, _I_ thought it prudent to check." Again, she offered her grandson a scouring look. "I must say, child... Hogwarts is doing wonders for you. Never mind your promising academic start, you're learning to assert yourself nicely, though you do need to learn the art of reproving indirectly, obviously. We'll work on that."

Nev blinked at her. She took his arm, rather than Sirius'.

'Onward we go, then," she said. "Shall you order for us, Professor Lupin? The children, I am presuming, don't speak French, and I can't be bothered, since the bother seems so readily to be waiting for us inside." She nodded through the faceted bay window at Dumbledore's garish, bobbing hat.

"But of course," he said, and winked at the kids. "Real silver," he said in an undertone. "I'm so excited! I feel like I'm courting reckless death by etiquette."

Harry snorted. Neville grinned. Ron looked uncomfortable. Hermione giggled.

"Silver, Ronald," she said. "Werewolves? This is Paris, they'll have all the properly posh flatware."

"I _know,_ Hermione," he said. "I got it. I just…" He looked awkwardly down at himself. He hadn't felt bad about the shabby state of his robes at the funeral, the particulars and the invisibility cloak considered, but there was no denying he looked a bit out of place. Augusta just whipped out her wand again. A deepening color charm to compensate for the faded fabric, a bit of pseudo-embroidery that covered the worst of the mended rents, and a swift polishing charm on both shoes and hair settled him, if not elegantly, than at least decently. After a quick look around, she whitened Harry's shirt, tamed Hermione's hair into an elegant twist (adding tiny lion earrings that roared adorably in her ears) and unwrinkled Neville from top to toe, starching his collar in the process.

"Much better," she pronounced, and straightening her vulture hat once again, reasserted her grasp on her grandson's arm, and led the way into the shimmering, scented interior of the restaurant.

Harry ate his salad quietly, elbows carefully off the table and avoiding Dumbledore's eye assiduously as on one side of him, Neville discreetly tutored Ron on how best to crack and eat mussels and Hermione happily munched her warm artichoke hearts. Sirius and Remus chatted politely with the Headmaster, pausing occasionally to offer each other a forkful of escargot as Augusta worked her stately way through her brandied lobster bisque. Dumbledore himself, as twinkling and expansive and apparently oblivious of tensions as ever, enjoyed the bread basket alongside his cock-a-leekie soup.

"These are disturbing, Longbottom," Ron said under his breath to Neville. "Tasty, but disturbing." Dumbledore caught the aside and chuckled understandingly.

"A new experience for you, Mr. Weasley?' he inquired.

"Yeah," Ron said. "I'm normally not encouraged to slurp at the dinner table."

Harry snerfed into his lettuce. More guffawed, really, but he couldn't help himself. It was such a _Ron_ thing to say, he thought, no matter his age.

"Ah, young Harry!" Dumbledore beamed. "A laugh! I was beginning to wonder if you could smile at all."

"Why would you wonder that, Headmaster?" Remus inquired, looking pointedly at the appropriated bread basket. Dumbledore ignored his look.

"Oh, only that your charge seems to have gotten off at a bit of a rough start at Hogwarts," he said. "Socially speaking, if not academically. I've worried."

"It's been less than three weeks," Hermione pointed out. "And he's got them now, doesn't he? Friends, that is?" She glared rather fiercely. Harry was surprised; the law-abiding Hermione he remembered wouldn't hear a word against the Headmaster, much less have confronted him in public. Then again, she'd always been rather fond of her newspaper subscriptions, and as September moved forward toward October and the uneasy promise of November, she was becoming less and less enthralled with a man who, as those papers reported, was for whatever reason absolutely determined that Harry's Muggles, who by all reports (including that of Harry himself) didn't _want_ the chance, should receive the opportunity to practice their limited capacity for remorse on a perfectly well-off child.

Hermione Granger, Harry thought, may have been annoying as a girl… But he'd forgotten too, the absolutely unlimited size of her heart, and that fierce drive for justice that she'd had, full grown, right from the start. Never mind her capacity to forgive him at least, on that daily, or rather minute-by-minute basis, once she determined that he needed , as her friend-whether-he-liked-it-or-not, her forgiveness more than she needed higher grades.

Once that had processed… He'd crumbled. He couldn't help himself.

The day before, September 19th - her first birthday away from home – had cemented his decision. She'd been abnormally quiet all day, to the point of the worrying, when he'd sat down in front of her in potions and jotted the date. The memory of the occasion had come back in a rush, and the quiet sniffle behind him had done him in.

"Granger," he'd said half an hour later. "You're bollocksing it up."

"What?' She'd looked up in alarm, standing on her toes to peek into what was supposed to be her simmering cauldron.. "Oh no! It's totally vaporized! Oh no!"

"Bad luck," he'd said with sympathy, and as she'd glared, had reached over and reached in, and extracted (courtesy of a happy little charm that never failed to win love from the grandchildren) a single chocolate raspberry cream cauldron cake with an unlit candle on top… He'd lit it with a quick spark… She looked from the cake, to him, and back, mouth ajar.

"What…"

"Happy birthday," he'd said.

"How…"

"Magic," he'd said. Snape had swooped over, of course, and scathed as only he could, but Hermione's cheeks were flushed pink, and she had icing on her nose, and she didn't care one whit for the zero she earned for her empty pot.

"Does this mean we're friends again?' she'd said timidly as they'd left the classroom. "Only, I'm a big pest, I know, and I didn't mean to be so rude, really. I just…" She'd pinked again. "I'm kind of used to being the best," she confided in a whisper. "Mum warned me that I might not be, here, but…"

"Indeed he does." The indulgent twinkle from the Headmaster was blinding. "And you, Miss Granger? How are you adapting to all the changes in your new life?'

"I have friends too, if that's what you're asking," Hermione returned defiantly. "Thank you for your concern."

"I've never had any friends before," Harry said bluntly. "Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon never encouraged it; they were afraid that people would realize I'm a freak. And Dudley, my cousin, would beat anybody up who ever liked me." He looked straight at Hermione. "I reckon I just didn't see what was in front of me till it stayed, right? Only, I'm not used to other kids being stubborn enough to stick around when I try to chase them off for what I've always thought of as their own safety."

Hermione stopped, her forkful of artichoke at her lips.

"Oh Harry," she trembled, and buried her face in her ice water to prevent the tears. Ron patted her back.

"Told you he'd come around," he said bracingly. "Only Bill told me, right, while he wrote right before school started. Said you'd likely be a bit touchy with knowing your name was all over the papers for the bad things that happened to you; who'd want that, he said, and you'd be a bit easier once you were settled in your new place, with proper guardians who understand magic. I reckon I hadn't thought of it like that, but Mum said he was right, and that I – we all – should just give you your space, and well…" He looked a bit sheepish. "I reckon I'm a bit of a prat sometimes, and I want to be as famous as anybody, but it's like the Sorting Hat said, right? Your mum was the hero, not you. You're just an ordinary bloke, right? Like the rest of us?"

There was a plea in there somewhere… Not far from the surface, either.

"I really, really am," Harry reassured him. "Bit weird, isn't it, to have all these people talking at me like I'm some great wizard when all I did was sit there and cry and wee myself while a curse bounced off me because of a spell someone else did? Remus explained it to me though; he said it probably makes people feel better when there's somebody physically left there to remind them that any evil can be defeated, and they're more likely to want to make that live reminder their hero than one who passed on for the cause."

Dumbledore cleared his throat.

"How do you mean, my boy?" he asked.""When you say 'because of a spell someone else did'? You can't possibly remember what happened that night, can you?'

"I remember some things," Harry said, and it was true… His Auror-assigned Mind Healer had been a brilliant Legilimens, and painful as it had been, when he'd requested she work with him to elicit as many memories of his parents as she could, had come through for him. Some of the ensuing revelations had been startling, to say the least. Others had provided his heart with a kind of soothing balm that only hysterical laughter could provide. "Mum was singing something, or chanting, I suppose, and Dad was calling up, telling her to take me and run, and then she was yelling, and Voldemort was laughing, this really high laugh, and telling her to move, and she called him a mincing moldy toerag and told him to sod off and die." He caught Augusta's stare. "I'm sorry, ma'am, but she really did say that. Loudly. Then everything went green." He spooned up soup. "And then I was looking up at stars, and it was really, really cold. I reckon that's when you left me sitting on the doorstep at my aunt's house, Professor. I've always wanted to ask; why didn't you just knock on the door instead of leaving me there with a half-page letter telling her her sister had just been murdered?'

Dumbledore's mouth opened and closed a bit. Harry ate more soup, the picture of bright, green-eyed inquisitiveness. Neville kicked him gently under the table. Harry's eyes flicked over briefly. _Careful,_ Neville's own eyes warned. _That's more than enough new information for him to work with. Let him hang himself now._

"It was a bit of a hurried night, my boy," the Headmaster said delicately. "There really wasn't time to sit and discuss the sad specifics."

"You had time to write the letter," Harry pointed out. "And cast the blood wards. Those must've taken an hour at least. A cuppa and a 'there there' wouldn't have taken that much longer, and might have put them in a mood to do more for me than stuff me in a boot cupboard for the next ten years."

"Harry…"

"He's not exaggerating," Sirius said to the flabbergasted Augusta. "I popped by and took pictures. Want to see?' He reached for a thick wallet and pulled out a series of wizarding photographs. "Look here. There's his toddler mattress, and the sheet – they were very generous, they gave him one big enough to wrap himself in – and if you look closely, you can see that family of spiders waving from the corner there. Prolific little buggers, but I suppose they were good company, eh, pup?'

But Augusta was just staring at Harry, her lips quivering with…

"Your mother," she said in a restrained voice. "Called _He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named_ a mincing moldy _toerag_? To his _face_? And told him to…"

"I was only fifteen months old," he said apologetically. "But it's always _stuck in my head_ (he offered Dumbledore a rather pointed look at that last) because my aunt and uncle always told me that my parents died in a drunk car crash, you see? That they were drunk. The two accounts just didn't seem to add together."

"Died in a…" Remus' mouth dropped, outraged. "They did _not_!"

"When it comes down to it, that's really the least of their sins, Moony. Remember, we have the list? Anyway, it definitely sounds like Lily," Sirius said. "The accounts never talk about it now, but she had a mouth on her, our girl, that would make a werewolf blush."

"And did," Remus recovered himself. "Frequently." He popped in the last escargot. "Lovely. How are you doing with those mussels, boys?'

"All done." Neville squeezed and tilted the last shell expertly as he scraped the meat out with his tiny fork, dipped it in the tinier bowl of sauce and schlurped it up. "Yum. Brilliant."

"Slimy, yet satisfying." Ron agreed.

Hermione giggled again, and hummed quietly. Harry grinned back.

"Hakuna Matata," he hummed back. "What a wonderful phrase…"

"Hakuna Matata," she sang quietly. "It's no passing phase…"

"It means no worries," he joined in. "Till the end of our days… It's our problem free… philosophy… Hakuna Matata!"

"Admirable," Sirius said. "If sadly unrealistic. And…. What?'

"It's a Muggle thing," Hermione said patronizingly. "You wouldn't understand."

"Yeah," Harry said. "Don't you worry your inbred little brain about it. Though as someone once said to me, half-blood's better'n half baked, and…"

Hermione cracked up. Ron and Neville looked mildly affronted. Augusta sighed.

"It's from an American film," she told her grandson. "Quite popular. The protagonist was, aptly, a young lion cub with rather peculiar taste in friends – peculiar friends with rather peculiar taste in food. Mr. Weasley there just inadvertently quoted one of the more popular lines referencing the fact."

"Gran…"

"It's not an _insult_ , Neville," she said patiently. "Peculiar people are by far the most interesting, and you may have your legacy and heritage and reputation to maintain, but that doesn't mean you're not entitled to your gentlemanly quirks."

"We're quirks," Ron said to Harry and Hermione. "How about that? And not just quirks, but _gentlemanly_ quirks. D'you think they have a register at the Ministry for that?'

"Speaking of the ministry," Remus said, cutting them off. "Did you get the Board of Governers' approval for the temporary potions teacher replacement, Headmaster?'

"I did," Dumbledore said, as the children looked up. "She'll be here first thing tomorrow."

"Temporary…" Hermione looked up on high alert. "What happened to Professor Snape?'

"He had to leave quite urgently yesterday evening," Professor Dumbledore said. "He received a letter that put him in quite the state of agitation, and asked for permission to go see the sender as soon as his classes ended for the day. I agreed of course, but no worries, as your song says. He'll be back, hopefully, before the beginning of next week, and in the meantime, we will be graced with the presence of one Professor Eulalia Shelley. Charming woman, I've heard."

" _Eulalia?_ ' Neville repeated, and then, diverted… "Gran? How do _you_ know about American films?'

Augusta hesitated.

"Your father had a passion for them when he was a boy," she said finally. "One, coincidentally, that he found he shared with your mother. At the time, I thought it foolish, but after they were hospitalized, I talked to Arthur Weasley – your father, Mr. Weasley – and he was kind enough to get the necessary permits for a magically adapted Muggle television and video player." She pronounced the words carefully. "They're kept primarily in the children's ward, but now and again, their nurses will take them down, as part of their therapy, and allow them to watch their favorites, and to introduce them to new ones. Your mother in particular is fond of anything with animals."

This was all said with a certain reluctance.

"Why didn't you ever tell me?' Neville asked, a bit lost.

"Your other relatives don't approve," she said honestly. "And didn't, of the idea of introducing you to anything Muggle at all. They were all so worried, you see, that you were a Squib, and didn't want …" She took a breath. "I suppose _I_ didn't want to give you any encouragement that the Muggle world has its good points, for fear you'd just… give up on what little magic you may have had, and decide to embrace the culture entirely when you were old enough. I couldn't bear the thought of you…"

She stopped. Neville looked down at his plate.

'We don't have to worry about that now, anyway," he said to his mussel shells.

"No," she said, shaking herself briskly. "No, we don't. Ah, here's the next course."

"I have piles of movies at home, Madam Longbottom," Hermione ventured. 'I do mean piles, right from the beginning of the cinematic age to the brand new ones. Mum and Dad get them for their patients to watch while they're doing their teeth. I'd be happy to owl them and ask them to box some up for you, if you can get Mr. Weasley to enchant them, that is?"

"Thank you, Miss Granger," Augusta said gravely. "I would be most indebted to you – as would the other patients at the hospital, I'm sure. They've become quite the popular pastime."

Hermione blushed and bobbed her head eagerly. Dumbledore smiled indulgently as the small plates were cleared and the larger unloaded.

"Do you have a favorite class, Harry?' he asked. "I've gotten nothing but good reports from all your teachers thus far, though of course, it's early in the year yet."

"I like them all," Harry said, watching as a huge plate of boneless seared lamb medallions, buttered peas and baby onions and sautéed rosy whole baby potatoes was set in front of him. The empty bread basket was replaced by two more, one discreetly out of reach of the Headmaster. He stuffed his mouth as soon as it was politely possible, avoiding more questions as he worried.

 _He left right after he got the letter? Charlie's letter? And he was agitated? What was in there that was so agitating that he'd have to go to Romania just like that?_

He went back over the contents in his mind, as thoroughly as he could remember, but there was nothing. Certainly, he thought, Snape probably had known most of the facts and stories relayed there himself; he was too good a potions master not to investigate the properties of the wand he used to create his masterpieces. Still, there had to be _something._

"I got a letter from Charlie," he said in a casual undertone to Ron as the adults talked. "Yesterday. Did he send you one?"

"Yeah," Ron said, brightening. "I did. He sent me pictures too; I'll show them to you when we get back to the dorm. "

"He said his wand was a bit strange too," Harry said, remembering suddenly. "You had his old one, didn't you, before Sirius sat on it?'

"Yeah," Ron nodded. "Ash and unicorn hair, it was. His new one… He got it last year in Peru, when he was there helping chasing down a rogue dragon as a favor for a friend. It led them right into some old ruins, and there was a booby trap; Charlie fell into it and got out again, but when they got him out, it was from under a rock slide, and he was only saved because there was a little cave behind it. They poked around once it was safe, and he found a skeleton…" He shuddered. "With the wand still in its hand. They thought it'd be no good, it was all beat up and battered, but when Charlie pulled it out, it went mental for him. Weird looking thing, and it's not so much beat up as gnarly and twisted, but it works like a charm, and dragons respond to it like nothing else. He had it checked for curses and everything," he added. "Of course he did. The curse-breaker they had with them gave it the full scan before he'd let anybody touch it, and it was fine."

"Of course," Harry said automatically, remembering the wand as if it were yesterday. Charlie had only ever owned the one in his memory, and it had definitely been ugly, yes, but they'd always seemed very fond of each other. He'd never thought to ask the story of it though, assuming that he'd got it from Ollivander's like everyone else did theirs. At the last, when Charlie had been dying, and asked him to release him with the pain… Harry had used that wand, not his own. It hadn't felt particularly easy in his hand, but it had done the job, though it hadn't survived to serve another master. He'd broken it in two, ceremoniously, at the funeral, and laid the pieces to rest at the man's feet before going out and getting thoroughly stinking drunk. Charlie had been, after the final battle, the closest thing to a father he was ever to have again – or at least, to the bigger-than-life, heroic elder brother that he'd always yearned for. He'd invited Harry to Romania a few months after everything was calmed down, on retreat from an adoring and sycophantic Britain, and proceeded to treat him , of all things, as if he were a normal, boring human being… After he'd gone back, they'd exchanged letters every week for years, on everything and nothing, as brothers did… After he'd died, Harry had wanted nothing so much as a third son to name for him, but it just hadn't worked out. He and Ginny had both grieved that, but considering the curses they'd both taken during the war, the healers told them, they were lucky to have the three they did. In the end, Teddy Lupin and Victoire Weasley had brought forth his namesake: Charles Septimus Weasley-Lupin, and no one had ever questioned the oddity of a godson asking his godfather to be godfather to his _own_ son.

"He's great," Ron was continuing, between mouthfuls of braised beef. "I dunno whether he'll be able to come home for Christmas, but you'll meet him sometime, anyway. I don't…" He nearly dropped his fork as Fawkes suddenly snapped in… All around them, customers shrieked and jabbered in shock. Dumbledore just smiled benevolently and reached up to catch the letter that the phoenix dropped from its beak.

"Pardon me," he said. "I do have to take this." He unrolled the scrap and scanned it, the twinkle dimming and frowning. "Oh dear. Oh dear. This is unfortunate." He patted Fawkes; he flashed out again. "Mr. Weasley, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but .. The message was from Professor Snape, and he's asked me to inform you, on behalf of your parents, that he's returned to Britain, and St. Mungo's, in the company of your brother Charles. Your mother and father are gathering up the rest of the children and are requesting that we meet them at the hospital."

"What?" Ron's freckles milked to white. "What? Charlie? What is it, was it a dragon? Is he…"

"I do not know, Mr. Weasley," He slung his cloak on. "Come. I will return you to your dormitories when it's possible."

"Hold on, Dumbledore," Augusta commanded, and rising to her feet as she dabbed at her lips, beckoned to the rest. "We'll go with you. We have a portkey to St. Mungo's right here; we were going to visit my son and daughter-in-law after the meal, so we'll just take advantage."

"Thank you, Madame." He bowed, and dropped a handful of Galleons on the table. Seconds later, they were outside on the cobbled side street, and then they were gone.


	15. To A Bridge By A Fountain

**St. Mungo's**

"Mum?' Ron's face behind his freckles was still milk-white as he raced down the corridor towards his family. Harry's heart almost stopped as he saw the look on Molly's face. She too, was white, but she was grimly calm and composed. Arthur looked grey and haunted as he held Ginny on his lap, her fine carroty hair spilling over and around him as she wept in his shoulder. Fred and George had not a spark of mirth on face or in eyes, and Percy looked like he'd just been hit over the head – hard. "Mum, Dad... What's going on?" He stopped in his tracks as he processed the finer expressions. "Oh no, is he..."

"He's alive," Molly said, and her voice was strong and firm. "Still alive, and it's early yet, so there are things they can do. Come sit, Ronnie, and we'll tell you. Oh, hello, dears." She nodded distractedly to the others. "I hope you'll excuse us, we have to..." She shot to her feet as a door a few feet away opened and Professor Snape emerged. His expression, Harry was relieved to note, was as sour and unchanged as ever. Nothing in any world or time could be that bad, he thought, relieved, as long as that expression remained a constant.

He froze.

 _It's early yet, so there are things they can do._

 _Merlin's arse._ Harry thought frantically. _Oh God, please no. No. Not yet, not yet; it's too soon, what..._

"He's stable for now," Professor Snape said without preamble. "I must go back to the castle soon, though, to begin the necessary potions." He caught sight of the second group, eyes flickering over them, and ignored Dumbledore's inquiries as his eyes rested on Harry. "Potter."

"What..." Harry swallowed hard. "Professor Dumbledore said... He said you got a letter... And you went right away, what..."

"Mr. Weasley would like to tell you himself, I think." His black, fathomless eyes turned back to the breathless family. 'Credit where credit is due. Potter here sent me a copy of the letter that your son sent to him, on what instinct, and for what reason only he knows – but the fact remains. I would not have known the danger Charles was in had he not. I will be in contact."

He walked swiftly away... The Weasleys turned as one to stare.

"Harry Potter," Arthur said blankly. "My word." He stood, Ginny still in his arms, and sat again, hard.

"Dad!" Ron was almost on the verge of tears. _"Dad!"_

"Come sit, Ronnie." His mother pulled him over. "It's bad, very bad..." Her lip quivered; but she recovered. Harry could almost hear the echo of the self-administered mental slap. "But there's hope yet."

"Was it a dragon?'

"No," Bill said as he came down the hall. He looked exhausted. "Well, no, and yes. It was his wand. The one he found in Peru, remember? They checked it, and it was fine, but they didn't check the skeleton, and even then, it probably wouldn't have shown much. It was too old."

"His wand?'

"Giant Lupuna is a wonderful wood," Arthur said carefully. "With many wonderful properties... But it also, after it's harvested, tends to the porous. Not unusual, though modern wandmakers tend to magically seal such woods, and it's fine if it has the proper core – unicorn or phoenix feather – but with a dragon heartstring, the crafter has to be careful, Ron, to make use of an appropriate dragon. The crafter... wasn't careful. He or she chose a Peruvian Vipertooth, and while they're not as overtly vicious as other types... They don't have to be. They're poisonous, you see, and the poison... "

"The crafter was a necromancer," Bill said bluntly. "He enchanted the wand so that it would poison its victims, not just kill them, and he thought he was safe because it was his wand, but he wasn't. And the wood was wrong. He chose the wrong wood, and they didn't have the charms developed back then that seal the woods, and the poison leaked through, and because he'd bonded with it, and the bond affected his magical core... His core was poisoned. And it killed him."

Ron sat down, hard. Hermione sat beside him, clutching the edges of the garish plastic seat with white-knuckled thin hands.

"I'm sorry," she said in a small voice. "But I'm... I'm Ron's friend, Hermione Granger, and I'm Muggleborn. I don't... I don't understand. Your core can be poisoned?'

"It's cancer, Hermione," Neville said bleakly, from beside his grandmother. "They're saying he's got cancer. Cancer of his magic."

Hermione's face paled to translucent.

"But..." She faltered. "But... I read about that; that means..."

"It's not really cancer yet," Percy said. He sounded very far away. "It's early. They said it was early yet, Mum, right, and there are still things they can do?'

"Yes," Molly said. "Perce is right, there are. It'll be difficult and painful and exhausting – the Healers have to..." She closed her eyes. "Shut down his core for a bit, so that he can't access it while they're treating it..."

"Shut it _down_?" Ron said, horrified. "So he can't _access_ it? You mean... Make him a Squib?'

"Temporarily," Augusta said, and came to sit. "It will be unpleasant for him certainly, Mr. Weasley, but absolutely necessary. Your brother will not survive many years as Squib or Magical if they do not, and trust me..." Her lips pursed tightly and whitely. "He will not enjoy his life in the meantime, past the point."

"But... For how long? What will he do, where will he stay? He can't still work on the Reserve without magic! He can't do _anything_ without magic!"

"He'll be here at St. Mungo's for a month at least," Arthur said. "Sleeping for most of it. He looks well enough right now, you wouldn't think there was a change... Severus had quite the job convincing him that he was actually in danger because he had no symptoms, and of course, because he simply didn't want to believe it..."

"Ah yes," Dumbledore murmured. "Fear, the most dangerous foe of all."

"Oh, shut up, you old goat," Augusta snapped at him. "This is not the time for your babbling, and for the record; here's a practical lesson on how to be _actually_ helpful. Sirius, go to Gringott's now, and have them make a transfer of ten thousand galleons to the Weasley account from the Longbottom accounts, immediately. Here is my key, and my seal."

Sirius said nothing, just took both and kissed her cheek again.

"You're a brick, Madam A," he said to her. "I'm on it."

He disappeared through the doors. Molly put her hands to her face. The Longbottom Matriarch leaned over and put her hand on the smaller woman's knee.

"Your son will have everything he needs," she said. "From whatever source is required. If it is humanly possibly... he _will_ recover. "

"Madam Longbottom," Arthur said. "Don't think we don't appreciate it... But with Neville in school now, and your own son and daughter..."

"Don't you worry on that," Augusta said grimly. "Longbottom is not exactly struggling, and we have filed for restitution against the Lestrange estate – the full estate, since Lestrange obviously has no need for it anymore – in any instance. If things go as I expect they will, there won't be enough room in our vaults to hold what's owed it this time next week. You are to let me know immediately, Mr. Weasley –" she ignored Molly altogether – "If you require more, for anything, up to and including the necessary refitting of your home for an invalid, and a living allowance for your family should you be forced to take a leave of absence from your job to care for Charles."

"I will," he promised. Molly tried to look at him reproachfully, but could only burst into tears.

"I'm sorry," she sobbed. "I'm sorry, I just... That wand! His _wand_! It's just... The thought that it was... _eating_ at him..."

"Has it been destroyed?' Remus asked.

"Yes," Bill said shortly, and for the first time, Harry noticed the heavy bandage on his hand. "Properly. Professor Snape and I did it together."

"Are you alright?' Harry ventured, speaking for the first time, and pointing at his hand as the eldest Weasley son focused on him, surprised.

"Of course... Oh." He lifted his hand. "This? This wasn't from that; the owl bit me when it came to deliver the message to get my arse here."

"Oh," Harry said, relieved. "Good." He lapsed back into silence again.

"How long will he be off work?' Ron persisted. "And recovering?'

"The healers said at least a year," Molly said. "They can reactivate his core, they hope, after Christmas, but there are parts there that will have to be regrown, so his magic will be a bit unstable. Bouts of accidental magic, he'll have to learn certain things over again, in terms of spell work... "

"You mean he'll have to go back to school?'

"No. He'll have the information yet, but he'll just have to practice a lot to get his techniques down again." She looked uncertain. "I think?"

"We'll sort everything out as the need arises," Arthur said firmly. "Right now... Professor Snape has gone back to Hogwarts to brew the Drought of Living Death. It's necessary, for that next month – that's why he'll be sleeping – and Charlie said that he doesn't trust anybody else to make it for him."

"Too right," Fred, or perhaps it was George, nodded fiercely. "Too right. He may be a great greasy git, but he's the best, and Charlie deserves the best." His eyes swiveled to Harry. "Harry... Since no one here's said it yet, we owe you. We owe you ... Bigtime."

"I just sent the letter to Professor Snape," Harry said. "He did all the work."

"We owe him too," George, or was it Fred, said. "That doesn't take away from what you did, even if you didn't know you were doing it."

"Story of your life, mate," Ron muttered in an aside. Harry hid a rueful grin, but nodded, trying desperately to ignore the piercing brown eyes now turned to him from the last, decidedly disconcerting, source.

'Oh," Ron said with a start. "This is Ginny. My little sister. I told you about her; she's coming to Hogwarts next year?'

Both children, the adults were interested to note, turned immediately crimson.

"Yeah," Harry muttered. "You said. I remember."

 _And oh God, I wish I didn't. Not now, anyway. Get a grip, Potter. This is not the ti..._

He nearly fell over as Ginny hopped lightly from Arthur's knee, tore over with that same blazing, hard look he remembered so well, and hugged him hard, kissing his cheek... Then suddenly she was ten again, and not just crimson, but afire with embarrassment, and she squeaked.

"I didn't... I'm sorry, it's just... It's _Charlie_ ," and she burst into tears again, and he couldn't help himself. He managed to give Remus an uncomfortable look, and squirmed a bit first, but in the end, he gave her a quick, extremely awkward hug – and yelped furiously as the wand in his sleeve set his shirt on fire, pure crimson and gold fire that arced up around both of them and wrapped them up in a brilliant cloak of glory. Dimly, from far away, he heard shrieks and yelps, and cries of alarm, and he hurled himself backward and literally bounced off the wall... The fire faded, his scar tingled furiously, and he looked up, dazed, as Remus crouched before him, patting him down desperately.

"What..."

"What the bloody buggering hell was that, Harry Potter?' ten year old Ginny demanded inelegantly as her brothers huddled around and checked her over.

"Um," Ron said. "It's nothing, his wand does that sometimes, it did it with Professor Snape, only the fire was a different color and their dragon cores are married besides, it's..." He clapped his hand over his mouth. "Bugger," he said from behind his palm. "I'm sorry, Harry, I know I wasn't supposed to say that to anyone!"

"Married," Molly Weasley repeated, looking down at her youngest son. "Your wand carries the heartstring of a mated dragon, Harry?"

"Er," Harry said. "It hasn't been confirmed. I don't think... I mean... I wrote to Charlie, that was what the letter was about... He said. Um. That he doesn't think it should be. Confirmed that is. In case the wrong people might get too interested."

"EWWWW!" Fred (or perhaps it was George, and it didn't really matter because the other twin was ewwwwwing right along with him; even Percy looked a little nauseated) - "Your wand is married to Snape's wand? How does _that_ work?'

"It doesn't," Arthur said. "Not if it Harry doesn't want it confirmed, boys, understand? We owe him that." He looked around at his crew sternly. "Now. Dry faces everyone, and we are going to go see Charlie again, and not one of you is to show fear. He's got more than enough going on for all of us, I promise, so you will, above all, remember that we are Gryffindors!"

"I'm not," Ginny pointed out. Her brothers scoffed and rolled their eyes as one. Even Remus chuckled.

"I, for one, have no hesitation in saying this... I greatly look forward to seeing you in my House next year, Miss Weasley," he said.

"What do you think it means, mate," Ron said, "that your wand lit up when Ginny hugged you? She doesn't even have a wand, so that can't be it!"

"Honestly, Ronald?" Hermione muttered. Then, tossing her still restrained hair... "Boys!"

"Indeed," Augusta Longbottom agreed. "Miss Granger, Mr. Potter... Why don't you come with me. I'm sure Neville's mother and father would love to meet you, though I'm sure Neville's explained to you that they're not exactly chatty, demonstrative people?'

"He did," Harry reassured her. "Um. Remus? What are you going to do?'

"I'll just step down to the cafeteria and have a cup of tea. Meet me there when you're done your visit?'

"That's very thoughtful of you to think on not intruding," Augusta said, deliberately not casting a gimlet, disapproving eye on Dumbledore. "I'm sure Frank and Alice would love to see you again, Lupin. They always spoke well of you."

Remus smiled at her.

"I'd love that, Madam," he said sincerely. "I've often thought of them over the years – if you were to imagine, as a matter of fact, that a week has passed where I've not remembered them, you'd be much mistaken."

"So why did you never contact me for permission to go on the visitor lists?' Her eyes narrowed.

"I was a werewolf, ma'am. Werewolves are disallowed from certain sections of St. Mungo's. I've been certified human again, yes, but resolving the finer points of law that ruled against me would yet require a representative in the Wizengamot to facilitate matters, and my letters requesting that a court-ordered barrister forward my petitions there have yet gone unanswered. This month..." He flushed a bit, though with dignity. "This month has really been the first time that I've managed to earn enough money to pay for a private solicitor. Sirius offered, of course, but there are some things that a man desires to provide for himself."

"I see." She looked him up and down. "I will represent you in the Wizengamot, then, should you want someone to facilitate things for you yet before you marry and automatically retain the services due Black. As long..." She held up a long, knobbly finger. "As long as you promise to visit Frank and Alice once a month."

"No promise necessary, Madam." He sketched that half-bow again. "It would be my privilege in any case. Frank was – is – my friend, and Alice is Harry's godmother. As Sirius and I intend to adopt him formally when we are granted custody... That makes her – and her husband , and the rest of her family, for that matter – _our_ family." The smile widened a little, and sharpened - definitely sharpened – as he glanced at the oddly silent Headmaster. "Our _pack,_ if you would."

Augusta actually laughed.

"Can't take the wolf out of the boy, eh, Lupin?' she said approvingly. "Come along then. The curry will have been delivered upstairs by now, and if you're as sensible as you seem with a towerful of growing teens to look after, you'll have ordered more than the extra."

They turned to go towards the lifts, but a carroty sleek head peeked out of Charlie's room first.

"Harry," Ginny Weasley called. "You'll stop in on your way down, won't you? Only Charlie'd like a word with you before they turn him into an Inferi." She yelped as a maternal hand pulled her in by her ear. "Ow, what Mum? I was just making a joke; it _is_ the Draught of Living Death!"

"I will," Harry promised. The serpentine laugh hissed behind his scar again. He wondered if he crossed his eyes whether it would be the same thing as glaring at it.

 _Shut up, you,_ he said firmly. _Could you have_ been _any less discreet?_

The serpentine hiss gave way to a rich feminine laugh. A very human, very familiar laugh.

 **/where's the fun in that?/** Gin's – not Ginny, but Gin's - voice teased him.

 _ **/gin? gin, what.../**_

 **/later, love. Just remember.../**

The voice was cut off immediately. Harry could have screamed in frustration.

"Lift's here, Harry," Neville called. "Hurry up, then!"

He stuffed the wand further back up his sleeve, and hurried.


	16. Where Rocking Horse People

Charles Septimus Weasley had never been a tall man – five foot seven at his full height, an inch shorter than Harry himself – and he'd been a late bloomer at that. Born prematurely, he'd never, as his parents put it, 'quite caught up with himself', and at nineteen, muscular and stocky as his training had made him, he still had two inches to go. Harry hovered at the door, watching as the young dragon-trainer's family fussed over him as he lay on the neat, starched hospital bed in the private room arranged for him during his testing. The room had not been an act of generosity on the hospital's part, Harry knew; the tests would have been excruciatingly painful, and that far older wizards than Charlie had been known to break down and scream piteously, frightening even the most hardened of Healers, never mind their fellow patients.

Through the gap between Percy and Bill, Harry could see Charlie himself: brown, round-cheeked, smiling, with riotously curly gold-streaked ginger hair and no apparent care in the world. Even from that distance, though, Harry's all-too-experienced eye spotted the exhausted tremor of his square brown hands, and the bonelessly fatigued way he slumped into his pillows... He knew, from long, never long-enough-ago experience, that the young man – boy, really – was about five minutes away from bursting into tears.

Such an exhibition would have absolutely mortified the Charlie Weasley he'd known and loved. He cleared his throat. Arthur glanced over.

"Harry!" he hailed. "Back already? How was your visit?'

"I'm back, yeah. Neville's still up there, and Madam Longbottom and Remus went to get a cup of tea. And it was okay," Harry said diffidently. "Nev brought his mum a teddy bear. She almost smiled."

"That's wonderful!" Molly was genuinely pleased. "And Frank?'

"He ate all the spicy curry when we weren't looking. The nurse wasn't too happy; she told us off and said that if she had any say that we'd be the ones to come back and take care of him when he sicked up tomorrow. Madam Longbottom told her off good though; she said she was sure that Mr. Longbottom would be absolutely delighted to have the opportunity to care for her were she in the same position the measly one day a month that she wasn't being force-fed watery mashed and stewed sprouts, and that shut her down."

"This is Harry Potter, Charlie," Ron said eagerly, before his parents could respond. "Come on, Harry, come on over! Join the party!"

"I'm pretty knackered, actually, Ronnie," Charlie said apologetically. "Can Harry and I have a few minutes alone, and then, maybe..." He trailed off. Those five minutes had cut themselves to two in Harry's estimation. Fortunately, Molly wasn't entirely oblivious.

"Of course, dear." She kissed his sunburned cheek and ran a plump hand caressingly over his untidy mop. "Goodness me, Arthur, you're going to have to tie me back while he's resting this month or I won't be able to resist attacking him with the scissors while he can't argue. Alright, everyone out. Yes, you too, Ron."

Charlie watched as his family trailed out. When they were gone, and the door was shut, he reached for his wand automatically to raise the bed, and grunted in irritation as he found it gone.

"Bloody thing tried to kill me and my instinct's still to cuddle with it," he said. "What else could I have been but a dragon tamer, eh?'

Harry just stood awkwardly by the door, biting hard on his cheek to keep back the tears. Charlie boosted himself up and patted the sheet.

"I don't bite," he said. "Too tired anyway. The magical inhibitors they gave me are dead awful that way."

He forced himself over, and to climb up. Charlie watched him with a small smile.

"You're a titch of a thing, aren't you,' he observed. "Fred and George said, but you're no taller than an Ironbelly egg."

"I'm working on it," he said. "Um. This is the part where I should say I'm sorry I landed you here, right?'

"Let's just blame Snape and have done with," he advised. Harry was startled into a laugh.

"You don't look so bad," he said and then, awkwardly. "Um. Hi. I'm Harry."

"Charlie." Charlie shook his hand. His square freckled hand dwarfed the smaller one. "So. I wanted to say thank you, before they knock me out."

There was no world, no universe that existed where Harry could possibly have said 'it was nothing.'

"I'm glad I could help," he said quietly. "Even if I didn't mean to."

Charlie's brown eyes searched his.

"Look," he said finally. "I'm not very good with words. The thing is though... I..." He gulped a deep breath, and there was a sudden glimmer of tears on the stubby, ginger-and-gold lashes. "I reckon ... "

He gulped again, struggling again in a way that Harry knew he that he hadn't yet permitted himself, for the sake of his family. He took all of three seconds to weigh his options and scooted up to take his hand.

"You're going to be okay," he said firmly. "You have to be."

"I do, do I," the young man before him said, and wiped at his round brown cheeks. "Says who?'

"Says me. Harry Potter. The-Boy-Who-Lived. If I can survive Voldemort, you can survive this. It's not so hard," he said awkwardly again, at Charlie's bemused look. "You just... keep going, you know?'

"I'll remember that," he said, and then, rolling over to open his desk drawer... "Here. Got something for you." He reached into a scattered pile of belongings, and pulled out a moneybag. "I reckon I owe you more than I'll ever be able to pay, but in the meantime... " He shook out a double handful of galleons. "I want you take this and buy the biggest damned owl that Eeylops has to offer."

"Why?'

"So we can write letters," he said. "After I wake up, and am back at home suffering Mum's weeping and wailing." He grimaced. "Worse part there, I won't be able to use silencing charms on her, _or_ cheering charms on myself."

"Oh," Harry said, and then, tentatively, and with an eager hopeful leap of his stomach... _Maybe it_ can _be different this time, maybe... Maybe it's another thing that can be good instead of..._ "So it'll belong to both of us?"

"Yeah." He wiped his eyes again. "Be a good mate, yeah, and don't tell anyone I was blubbing? Otherwise they'd all want to get in on it, and I'll drown in my damned sleep."

"I won't," Harry said, not letting go of his hand.

"Good." He hitched himself up a bit more. "So they call you Dash, eh? Something tells me there's more to the story than your quick feet. "

"There is," Harry said. "A lot more. Get better, and I'll tell you all."

The second Weasley son chuckled softly. "To answer _your_ question," he said. "My friends at the Reserve call me Beauty. Because of all my beauty marks." He flicked at his freckles.

"I'm happy to visit you, but there'll be no snogging, will there?'

"Uh?'

"Sleeping Beauty? Muggle fairy tale? Handsome prince wakes up the fair maiden after her hundred year enchanted sleep, with true love's kiss?'

"Sounds a bit off to me," the fair maiden said dubiously. "And boring, honestly. You got anything with raging chimaeras or manticores or basilisks be going on with?'

"I could owl away for some books," he offered. "Once I've got our owl, anyway."

"You do that." Charlie cocked his head, eyes suddenly sparkling with amusement despite his heavy fatigue. "So I hear you set my baby sister on fire? Should I be worried, what we both know about your wand now considered?"

"Er. I don't know. Should I be?'

"I won't tell her," he said. "Or anyone else, not if you promise not to tell her till she's at least sixteen, anyway. Though you can bet, at least, that Perce'll be looking it up."

His expression must have given him away. Charlie actually chuckled.

"Your secret's safe with me." He mimed zipping his lips. He sat up a bit more. "Mum'll be dithering... But before you go... Can I see it?'

"What, my wand?'

"Yeah."

"As long as you don't try to do magic with it." He shook it out. "None of your weird jokes now," he said to it severely. "He's sick, and doesn't need any of your... Whatever it is."

The wand hummed. He handed it over... Not a flame twitched. Charlie examined it carefully, holding it up to the light.

"It's beautiful," he said, and then, wistfully - "Can I have a go with it, when I've got my core back? I'd love to see how the other dragons on the Reserve react to it."

"I'd have to come to Romania for that," Harry pointed out. "Can't exactly send it in the post now, can I?'

"No, you can't," Charlie agreed. "And yes, you would. Will." His eyes closed a little. "Sorry. Really tired."

"It's alright," he said again, and took it back. "And... Yeah, that'd be brilliant. Next summer, okay? Right before school starts."

"You got it." His eyes drifted further shut. "Harry?'

"Yeah?'

"Hurt her and I'll have to kill you." His lips flicked. Harry wiped his own eyes.

"I won't," he said. "I'm going to go now, okay? Only I'll have to go back to the school soon, and I want to ask Remus to take me to Eeylops first."

"Get a big scary one," Charlie murmured. "I like the big scary ones." He snored. Harry slid off the bed and tucked the blanket around him gently, bending to kiss his forehead.

"I will," he said. "And I'll try not to be offended, then, when you piss yourself laughing at the other me."

He went to the door. The family stood anxiously.

"He's sleeping," he informed them. "The magical inhibitors kicked in."

"Already?" Molly looked most disappointed. "But..." She cut herself off. "It's for the best," she said briskly. "The more he sleeps, the less he'll be tempted, or will try, even on that instinctive level, to use his magic, and the healers said, didn't they, that that's what triggers the active..." She faltered. Arthur put his hand on her shoulder.

"Cancer, Mollywobbles," he said to her. His voice was pitched low, and the words were obviously meant only for her, but everyone could yet hear him. Even after almost a century and a half, Harry felt furious envy for these children who had grown up with parents who'd loved each other that much. He'd done his best to demonstrate the same for his children, and felt modestly confident that he'd succeeded - Gin made it easy - but it had never come as easily as it might have, had he grown up feeling it himself. "We'll do Charlie no good if we can't even say the word. Our boy has cancer, and he ..." He too faltered, but steeled himself. "Everything has to be for him now, don't you see?" He looked around at his children, from Bill down to Ginny. "I want you all to hear and understand this, alright? We love you all. Your mother and I. You are our... Everything. But right now, and till we'll sure he'll be alright again... Charlie is going be more than everything, to both of us. You're going to have to rely on each other for a lot of things, and I hope... I know that you can do that, alright, and when it's hard, and it will be hard, I won't insult any of you by minimizing it..."

"Don't you worry, Dad," Fred said immediately. "We understand."

"We do," George nodded. Percy nodded once, very firmly, and reached out to take Ginny's hand. Bill squared his shoulders.

"I'll talk to the Goblins," he said. "They'll put me on leave till Christmas at least, or at least home duty if I ask them to. If I explain the situation."

Harry doubted that, sincerely – 'asking' would be more along the lines of 'I'll sign all my commissions over to you for the next year in exchange for a favor', but if his parents suspected differently, they said nothing.

"Really?" Hermione couldn't help but ask. "Only I hadn't thought that they were that obliging, from what I read."

 _Oh, Hermione._ No one seemed offended though; in fact more than a few of them looked relieved at the diverted topic.

"Some things aren't written down," Bill explained. "Short version: Goblins are all over tribal connections, and they appreciate the fact that I, as one of their employees, have familial connections at the Romanian dragon reserve. If they lose my willingness to cooperate – they can't force that; it's not part of the contract – they could make my life difficult, yes, but they'd still be out those connections, wouldn't they? It behooves them therefore..." His lips twitched ironically. "Wouldn't it, at least this once... to invest in my interests."

"Oh," she said, and opened her mouth to ask another question. Augusta, though, seated with Neville, caught her eye and shook her head reprovingly, once. She flushed and closed with a snap. Arthur offered her a tired, indulgent smile.

"Alright, kids," Sirius said. Harry jumped. He hadn't seen him return. "Time to head back, I think."

"Already?" Ginny wilted, disappointed.

"I'm afraid so, Miss Weasley." Remus said apologetically. "Professor Black and I do have our duties to attend to, and we're your brothers' ride."

"Oh," Harry said hastily, and dug in his pocket. "Here, Ginny. Charlie asked me to give this to you." He handed her perhaps half the gold Charlie had pressed on him. He could always, he thought, supplement the rest with his own. "He said to get your lot a new owl with it. So you all can write to each other. He said the one you've got is a bit old, and probably won't hold up the next few months."

"Wicked!" Ron enthused.

"Wicked!" Ginny said simultaneously. "Can we get a snowy owl, Mum, like Luna's?'

"We can try, dear," her mother said, absently as her eyes strayed back to Charlie's closed door. "But snowies aren't common at all. We'd be lucky to ever see another up for sale in the Alley, and that's the truth."

"Snowies?' Harry couldn't help but ask.

"They're all white," Ginny explained. "Like snow. They look like big soft ghosts. My friend Luna's mum bought her one when she got her contract for Hogwarts, just so they could write."

Neville glanced over. Harry couldn't help but smile a little wistfully. There was a pang there, yes, but he found he rather liked the idea of Hedwig and Luna together – particularly for the singular cause.

"What did they name her?' he couldn't help but ask.

"Marshmallow," Ginny said, and, puzzled... "How'd you know it was a girl?'

"Er," he said, and then... "I dunno. Fifty-fifty chance?" Then..."Marshmallow?"

"After the marshmallow plant? It helps make things stick together. Rub-on medicines and things, and now Luna and her mum."

"Right," he said again, feeling rather the idiot. Again. "I was thinking of the Muggle candy."

"Muggles have candy?' Ron said, surprised. "Really?'

"Do Muggles have... _Honestly_ , Ronald!" Hermione said, fully exasperated.

"What? I don't know, I'm not a Muggle, am I?'

"I'll owl away for some for you to try," Harry said hastily. "Hermione can't, she said that her parents are dentists."

"Yeah, I know. What's that got to do with anything?'

"I despair," Hermione said dramatically to Harry. "I really, really do. How can so few people live so absolutely surrounded by so many, and remain so absolutely and entirely uneducated on their habits?"

"Buck up," he consoled her. "We still have time. It's not even October of our first year. First step, we entice them in with Saturday morning cartoons and sugar-coated cereal straight from the box. After that... They'll be putty in our hands."

"What's putty?" Arthur asked.

"Ooh!" Her eyes brightened. "What a brilliant idea! We could get badges! What was that you said at lunch? Half-blood's better than...

"Half-baked?"

She giggled madly.

"Don't take this the wrong way," Neville said delicately. "But slogans like that aren't exactly the best way to win friends and influence people.'

"Funny as shite though," Sirius said with a grin. "Do you remember the shirt Jamie got you in sixth year, Rem?''

"Come to me for your creature comforts," Remus reminisced. "I couldn't wear it out of the dorm room, of course, but it was the thought that counted."

"No badges," Harry said firmly. "They never lead anywhere good."

Hermione's face fell, disappointed. He poked her.

"Nev is right. We're outnumbered here," he reminded her. "It's like chess. You have to plan ahead. With subtlety."

"What are cartoons?' Fred asked with interest. "And what do they have to do with Saturday mornings?'

"We'll go through the Muggle Studies department," Hermione planned. "Maybe Professor Burbage can help us get the permits for a modified television, like the one that Madam Longbottom brought in..."


	17. Eat Marshmallow Pies

**Later that Evening**

Harry sat at the corner table in the common room, chin on his folded arms, and stared up at the gigantic, pitch-black owl hunkered before him. It offered him a pinched, suspicious glare, its tufted ears twitching at him, and ruffled its messy abundance of feathers. Huge, round and squat, it was, all in all, a rather unpleasant looking creature... Ron hovered beside him, his own eyes wide, and shuffled a bit back as the thing shifted. Its talons left visible marks on the table-top.

"Bit big, innit?' he ventured. "I mean.. It's nice and all: very ..." He gulped again as the owl swiveled its head to stare at him directly. "Nice... But... Big. Yeah. Big. Why isn't it up in the Owlery again?'

"The other owls don't like him," Harry said matter-of-factly, not breaking the owl's gaze. The owner at Eeylops had made rather a point of the fact that the particular bird was a hard sell, and that he'd have to earn its respect if he didn't want it to deliver his post half-mangled on contemptuous principle. "They attacked him on sight."

"I can't imagine why." Then... "Er. Why?"

"Because he's black." Hermione plumped down beside them and offered the bird a strip of dried sardine. It tore it from her hand and savaged it, snapping its beak at Ron again with a mad glint in its gold eyes. "Did you have to pay more for him, Harry, because he's so rare, or did they give you a discount because he's a biological sport?"

"A... What?' Dean Thomas asked blankly, from where he was playing Exploding Snap with Seamus.

"He's different," Neville said helpfully, from the armchair where he was scratching out his Charms essay. "You've seen albino rats, right, you know those funny ones that are sometimes born without any color at all: pure white with pink eyes? Only it's not just rats; other animals produce them too, and sometimes the opposite, where they're all black. That's called melanism. It's really rare, like, one in a hundred thousand, and with owls, you'll see it even less because most of those would be killed at birth by their mothers, or by other predators later, when they sniff out that they're not on."

"How do you know all that?'

"There was a hedgehog that lived in one of our greenhouses that was born that way. I looked it up." He licked his quill. Hermione gagged. He held it up reassuringly.

"Peppermint," he said. "The other end's for writing with."

"Urgh. What if you got the ends mixed?"

"You only ever do that once," he said. "Trust me."

"So he's got to stay here?" Ron persisted. "In the dorms?'

"No, no dorm. Not past tonight, anyway. Hagrid said he'd fix him up with a roost in his hut, and it'll be better anyway, because he's a Blakison's fish owl. That means he eats fish," Harry added helpfully. "He reckons he'll just raid the lake whenever he's hungry, and says that as long as I keep the sardine-flavored owl nuggets on hand for treats instead of the mice-flavored ones, he'll be just fine. Oh, and Professor Flitwick's going to cast an anti-attack charm on him. That way, the other, wild birds'll leave him alone when he's out and about."

"What're you going to name him?' Oliver Wood wanted to know, too from the prudent distance.

"No idea," Harry said. "I think I'm a bit afraid to suggest anything. He looks like he'd bite my head off if I picked the wrong one."

"Phineas," Sirius offered as he passed by on his rounds. "It means Black. Actually, Phineas Nigellius means Black Black, and Phineas Nigellus Black means Black Black Black. Far be it from me to recommend my relatives, but with that expression and his saturnine good looks, it does suit."

"But he was a _Slytherin_!" Ron said, aghast.

"You're telling me that that owl _isn't_ a Slytherin?' I don't know what got into you, pup. It's a positive snake with feathers!" He stopped to examine him. "A really _fat_ snake. How the hell is he supposed to fly like that?"

"He's not fat. It's all muscle, and just the shape of his breed. I like him," Harry said defensively. And he did, or rather appreciated him, though not for any reasons he cared to share. Hedwig, of course, had been pure white, delicately elegant in build, and had always held herself as a paragon of ladylike, if demanding, behavior... Phineas (the name did seem to suit) was easily twice as big as she'd ever been. Rumpled and hulking, he simply reeked of vulgarity, and his hoot was more of a snarky hiss in disguise. He had to weigh close to ten pounds bone dry, and had a measured wingspan of seven feet. "He's got _charisma_."

"Attitude, you mean." Remus approached, arms crossed. Phineas sneered at him. His lip curled in return, revealing a single sharp canine. It went frighteningly well with his dark grey evening flannels, slippers and crisp pale shirt. "Another Black in Gryffindor. Well, Mr. Black, I'll warn you now... This is my tower, and if you step one talon out of line..."

The bird just stared at him contemptuously. The canine receded. Remus smiled gently at him.

"You'll learn," he said. "I've trained one of you up to my standards, I daresay I can do it again."

"I think he's adorable!" Lavender Brown squealed. "He matches your hair, Harry!"

Hermione sniffed at her so hard her nose nearly inverted in on itself.

"One good thing about him anyway," Ron said. "He's even bigger than Malfoy's owl."

"Oh yes, Ron. That's why I bought him. Because he's bigger than Malfoy's owl."

"Oh, come on. You're telling me you didn't think on it? Haven't thought on it? Even for a minute? Even for a second?"

"No," Harry said, and then admitted... "I did think on the fact that he kind of looks like Snape though. He's got feathers, not bat wings, and he's not quite so tall and billowy... but still. D'you think I should send him a message at breakfast tomorrow, just so they can meet ?"

There was a moment's silence, and the common room erupted into roars of laughter.

"Phineas is good," Harry decided, and sat up, and back slowly. The bird waddled forward a bit – if he hadn't been so naturally intimidating, it would have been cute – and pecked at him. His wand slid down his sleeve and into his palm and he pointed it.

"WINGARDIUM LEVIOSA!" he barked. Phineas shot up as if set off by a rocket, flailing and barking madly as he was pinned to the ceiling. Harry lowered him gently back to the table.

"No," he said firmly. The bird lunged at him again.

"WINGARDIUM LEVIOSA!"

"Harry!" Remus reproached him sharply as Fred and George flailed with weeping mirth. Percy just looked approving. "Stop that! You'll hurt him!"

"I'm just holding him up there," Harry protested. "Not hexing him or bashing him against the roof or anything. And the bloke at Eeylops said I had to be tough with him!" Phineas glowered, but stayed still. He offered him a sardine nugget as reconciliation and reward... The black owl promptly hacked, and regurgitated a ball of mashed, loose jerky all over him.

"Oh, _that's_ nice," Harry said to him as Sirius' own bark of laughter echoed over the veritable riot in the common room. "One more like that, Black, and I'll return to sender the hard way."

"Serves you right," Remus said heartlessly. "There are ways and ways, and that was _not_ on, no matter what the owner at Eeylops said. He's a dumb animal, Harry, and..."

Phineas promptly hacked up all over _him_ at the insult, but didn't bother waiting around for the response. He seemed more than content to have made his point and waddled over to the window, hopping up with surprising grace and launching himself toward the lake.

"I'll order you a training book," was all Remus said as he Vanished the vomit. "A proper one. That spell is _not_ meant to be used that way."

"Cut him a break, Moony," Sirius muttered, pulling him aside. "You know he wasn't raised properly."

"He is now," Remus said flatly, if equally quietly. "Bad beginnings make bad habits, Sirius."

"But..." He looked torn. "James wouldn't have..."

"James isn't here anymore," Remus cut him off. "We are. As for that...Fifth year ring any bells there, Padfoot? I stood by once, I'm not going to stand by again. We've got a whole towerful of impressionable young minds here, and I'm not just a prefect anymore; I'm a teacher, and a Head of House. So are you, for that matter. More than that, we're temporary guardians who intend not just to be permanent guardians, but parents, and I _won't_ have a bully for a son. I _won't."_

Sirius sighed, but nodded. The cold, furious envy that Harry had felt at the sight of the Weasleys all together again faded abruptly. To be honest, he doubted that Phineas would have responded to anything less than such a tactic... Positive reinforcement was one thing, but he had the definite impression that like the original Phineas, his new acquisition would have scorned such things as soft and weak... But that wasn't exactly something that could be rationally explained on the basis of purely pre-adolescent experience. He had just started to get to his feet to apologize to Remus when a huge black cannonball hurtled back through the window and dropped a half-eviscerated flounder on his discarded homework, landing amid the mess and regarding him with beady, challenging eyes.

"Um," Harry said. "Thank you? I think?"

"Why are you _thanking_ him?' Ron said in disgust. "Urgh, that's just..."

"It's like another owl bringing him a mouse, Ron," Percy said condescendingly. "It's a sign of respect." Unwittingly, he repeated Harry's thought... "Positive reinforcement is all very well, but some just don't respond well to anything but firm initial discipline. Though I did notice," he continued pompously to Remus, "to be fair, Professor Lupin, that Phineas' head never even brushed the ceiling. Well done on your magical control there, Harry, particularly with a protesting target."

"Thanks, Perce," Harry said fondly. "Do me a favor, okay, and don't ever change?'

Percy cast him an uncertain, peculiar look at that, but said nothing, just nodded slightly and turned back to his homework.

"Um." Harry said to Remus. "Could you..." Hr gestured to his homework. "Vanish that?'

"No," Remus said, and looked to Sirius pointedly. Sirius sighed, but only a little, before shaking himself.

"You'll have to do it all over again, pup," he said bracingly. "We don't hang people – or owls – upside down. Even as training techniques, and I'd say not even my parents did that, but I'd be lying, and come to think of it..." He looked hopefully at Remus. "Maybe that's a good place to start? If my parents would imagine doing it... He shouldn't?'

"Definitely a place to start." Remus patted his head. "See, Black," he said to the owl. "Perfectly trained. You too, will come to learn your proper place in the pack."

Phineas waddled over, and vomited all over the floor again, not-quite-missing the toes of his soft woolen slippers.

The next couple of weeks, in retrospect, were a bit of a blur. A pleasant one: seeing Charlie, and with the hope of his long-term recovery and a potential real, uninterrupted friendship in mind, Harry found it easy to once again remind himself of his proper priorities – horcruxes and happiness. Hufflepuff's cup, as it turned out, was a total cinch to recover once the ruling on the Lestrange estate came through, and with it came a most unexpected surprise, at least for the Weasleys... Harry emerged, yawning yet, from the shower one morning to the sight of Ron in his favorite Chudley Cannons boxers, sitting on the edge of his bed and staring dumbly at a piece of parchment. Huddled around him were Fred, George and Percy, rumpled and dazed all.

"I don't believe this," Ron said. "Is it a joke, d'you reckon?'

'No," Percy said. "I don't..." He stopped, at a loss for words.

"What's going on?' Harry asked curiously. Ron looked up.

"Nev's gran," he said. "She added a whadayacallit..."

"Codicil," George supplied.

"To her wotzit against the Lestranges, offering up the name of a few families that they were known to have... You know. Been 'specially affected by the fact that they were such prats. Uncle Fabian and Uncle Gideon were the last males of the name of the Prewett line, and when they helped kill them, they ended one of the Sacred Twenty Eight. On paper, anyway: with all of us, one of us can always have a kid that we give the name to, but that hasn't happened yet, so..."

"They gave her half the estate," Fred said, dazed. "Madam Longbottom, but split up the rest among the other named parties. And it says here that our family, the Weasleys, or rather Mum, as their closest relative... is being given double shares because of the family line thing again."

"Yeah," George said, taking the parchment from Ron and staring at it as if the lettering (and numbers) might disappear. "It's pretty obvious, innit, why Madam Longbottom did it: for Charlie, so Dad doesn't have to ask her for help again – but ... _three quarters of a million_ _galleons_ _per brother?_ Plus a twentieth share of the non-liquid assets, including real estate and retained household staff?'

"Retained household staff? You mean, like house-elves? And... Three..." Harry blinked. "Bugger me. _That's_ a bit of a lot, yeah?"

The four Weasleys lined up before him didn't seem to be able to respond to that. They did, however, respond to the instructions to report to Professor Lovegood's office that next Saturday, and were promptly flooed home en masse for what promised to be the shopping spree of a lifetime... Harry and Neville waved goodbye, Sirius grinning behind them as he did so. When the fireplace was clear...

"Alright, then," he said briskly to his two charges. "Remember what our letter said; the curses and wards have all been removed on the vaults, but there's still enough gold there to drown in if you step wrong, so watch your wallowing. One token each as a personal memento, that was the agreement, and no shriveled severed heads."

"They'll have those?" Neville asked obligingly. "Really?'

"I've no doubt," Remus said, appearing behind them. Harry gawped. He was dressed, of all things in a Muggle suit - a hand-tailored, Armani Muggle suit, or he missed his guess, and was carrying a Burberry trenchcoat over his arm. Remus ruffled his hair.

"I have an appointment in London," he said. "With Madam Longbottom, once we're done."

"Doing what? Meeting up with the Prime Minister at Downing Street?'

"As a matter of fact," his co-guardian said, "Yes. Briefly, anyway, and then we two are having dinner together to discuss our strategy in the Wizengamot." He kissed his fiancé. "Thank you for the outfit, Padfoot. You have exquisite taste, as always."

"Welcome. Can't have my werewolf, however ex, running around London in mangy fur, can I? And I can't believe she asked _you_ to be her escort and not me," Sirius sulked. "It's not fair. What's wrong with _me_?'

"You're inappropriately fifteen at those unpredictable moments," Remus said kindly. "I'm not."

He took a pinch of floo powder and stepped neatly through. When they emerged, they were in the front lobby of Gringott's. Harry glanced at Neville. He nodded slightly. The cup, in the end, was only part of their plans for the day.

"Padfoot?' he ventured. "Um. If it's not too much trouble... I've seen my trust vault, yeah, but never the main family vault of the Potters. Can we... I mean, I don't want anything from it, I just..." He puppy-dogged his eyes as much as he could manage it without popping them. Padfoot, predictably, melted.

"Of course, pup," he said. "Only we'll take care of business first, alright, and then we can spend some proper time poking around."

"Yes!" he cheered. Soon, they were rattling at full-speed to the lowest levels of the bank, and once arrived..

"This is nice," Neville said, wading hip-deep through the piles back to the small crowd, Hufflepuff's cup clutched firmly in his sweaty hand. "I think I'll take this."

"That's not much of anything," Sirius said, examining it. "And the badger looks a bit mad, if you ask me. You sure you wouldn't rather have a nice sword or suit of armor or something?'

"What would I do with a sword?'

"Not much," Harry agreed, from where he was sitting on top of a trunk, browsing through a rather interesting, if seriously outdated, book on Dark Curses. Remus peered over his shoulder, tore it out of his hands and threw it across the room.

"No," he said, and just low enough so that only they could hear. "Not now, not ever, Harry. I will not have you developing a fascination with ... _that_... kind of thing, no matter – no, especially - your circumstances considered."

"I was just looking at it!" Harry protested.

"That's how it starts," the ex-were said grimly. "Once you look... It's like potato crisps. You can never stop at one."

Harry stared at him.

" _Potato crisps_?' he repeated. "You're actually comparing the Dark Arts to _potato crisps_?"

"Just pick something else, alright?"

"Alright." He slid to his feet, and made his way to a box of discarded wands that he'd spotted earlier. He hunkered down and began to rummage. Most were useless, to him anyway, and two were so inherently dark and repulsive that he discreetly snapped them on the spot, but much to his surprise, one actually warmed for him – a long, pale stick, smoothly polished and exquisitely done about in Celtic knotwork. He cast a quick, all-purpose scanning spell (the core, he saw, was made of hippogryph feather) glancing over his shoulder... It came up sparklingly clear. He gave an experimental wave. It responded immediately and promptly, though not spectacularly. He got a definite impression, not of shyness, but of dignified reserve and a strong distaste for unnecessarily showy displays of power. His inner Gryffindor, alive and well these days, struggled a bit there, but in the end, the experienced and practical grizzled old Auror won out. The amber wand, after all, drew rather a lot of attention, and there would undoubtedly be times he'd need a magical assistant with a proper sense of decorum.

"What have you got there, pup?" Sirius asked, slogging over.

"A wand. I still need a back up, and it feels really nice. Not like my amber, but... Normal nice."

"Don't tell anyone I said so, but we could all use a bit of that now and again," Sirius agreed, and taking it, examined it closely. "Huh. Definitely not willow or birch... Butternut, maybe? Not uncommon abroad, but... Alright. We'll get it properly checked for unexpecteds, and if all goes well, it's yours." He tucked it in his pocket. "We're done here? Good. Let's go." His face was pale, and he was sweating... Remus took his hand firmly.

"You heard him," he said to the goblins. "Potter vaults next. That'll cheer you up, love. "

And it did. The family vault was nothing less than a wonderland of portraits, silks, piles of books, trunks, coin and ...

"What's this?' Harry rummaged casually through a pile of old letters on a table right near the entrance near the vault. "It's got your name on it, Remus!"

"Sorry?" Remus said, startled.

"It was sitting right on top." He handed it over.

"That's Fleamont's handwriting!" Sirius said, and as Remus unsealed the envelope and unfolded it... "Oh my God! It's dated like, a month before he died! Why was it never delivered, do you think?'

"No idea. Maybe he thought we'd be down here with Jamie after the funeral, and we'd find it then." He scanned, chocolate eyes widening.

"What does it say, what does it say?'

"Hold on, hold..." He flipped it over. "This can't be right. These are all Muggle ingredients. And... Mr Smiley's Enviro-Cleaning fluid?"

"Remus..."

He flipped the paper over.

"Dear Remus," he read. "Been fidgeting around a bit for a few years now, and just came up with this. I know it looks unlikely, but I really think it might work. If it does, it's yours, to do with what you want. Enclosed is the patent, filed under your name at our family solicitors'. Use it well. You're a good boy, and were always a good friend to Jamie, even when he was being a prat. I can say that, because I was a prat at his age too. You're not though – you're just a sweet kid who got a really, really bad break. Hopefully, this will help you along, in all ways. Fondest regards – Fleamont Potter.

He turned the page one more.

"A recipe for Fur-B-Gone," he read. "For those inflicted with follicular issues beyond the miracles of Sleekeazy."

"Where'd you get the handwriting samples again?' Neville murmured to Harry as they stood back.

"Snuck out as Dash and into the Ministry," he murmured back. "He filed a lot of patents, and there are a lot of forms involved. They're all on record, if you know where to look."

"And his style of writing?"

"I have been in this vault before, yeah? He's got a whole trunkful of journals and letters behind that tapestry over there. I practically memorized them all before James was born, so that I could tell him everything I didn't know about our Potter ancestors."

"It wouldn't hurt to give it a go," Sirius was saying reasonably. "I mean, except for the Mr. Smiley's, it looks more like a recipe for a hot toddy than anything else. And Mr. Smiley's is _enviro_ -cleaning fluid, guaranteed not to so much as make your sprog puke, even if he drinks the whole bottle."

"I'm not a werewolf anymore, Sirius!"

"You're telling me that you don't have a pen friend that could use a night out and a free drink or two? Brew a flask, order hot chocolate , top it up for him – or her – and then call him or her after the next full moon to see how they're feeling."

"That's completely _unethical_ , Sirius! What if something went wrong? I just can't experiment on my friends without their knowledge and consent!"

"So experiment on your enemies! I know you've got a few of those, and..." He stopped, or rather skidded to a verbal halt. The two men stared at each other.

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" Remus said breathlessly.

"If you're thinking 'Fenrir Greyback,' then. Yes. Yes you are." Harry and Neville exchanged fat, satisfied private smirks as Sirius grabbed the paper. Fruitcake, they'd thought in the end, was all very well, but this way, Remus got the satisfaction of personally taking down his nemesis, and the residuals from any patents pending (they'd not exactly been hard to rig) would give him a quite tidy private income besides. "Godric's bleeding... Moony... If this works... And it has to work; everything Fleamont made always, _always_ worked..."

"How do we _get_ it to him, though? And in him? I can't exactly invite him up and invite _him_ out for a drink, can I?' He tried to take the letter back. "Does it even say how much he'd need to ingest?'

"Hold up, here, let me... Here it is. "One half-pint per, as good as a cure. Can be drunk anytime, anywhere, and should have an immediate calming effect. "

"We'll think on it," Remus said, and glancing at his Muggle watch, started. "Oop. I have to go; Madam Longbottom will be waiting for me upstairs."

"Like taking candy from a baby," Harry murmured to Neville as they followed the men out. "How're you doing there?'

"I need a shower. This thing stinks," Neville murmured back."On levels I can't even begin to describe. The diadem wasn't this bad, what..."

"It's got more of him in it. A lot more. The horcruxes weren't split into seven equal parts, remember; each split bit was half of each progressively smaller bit. "

" _You_ get to do the diary then. That's got the full half, and I don't think Beorn could take it. He's feeling pretty rabid right now as is."

"Here. Give it to me." Harry took the artifact and stuffed it under his cloak. "They don't affect me as badly, for obvious reasons. Also, it's probably got something to do with your link to the school now too, specially after I boosted the wards."

"Yeah. Thanks for that, by the way." He looked as pale as Sirius had earlier. 'Owen was very impressed."

"Owen?'

"Owen Hufflepuff. Helga Hufflepuff's husband. The baker down in the main wards room?'

"Huff... Helga _Hufflepuff_ married a _Muggleborn_?'

"Hurry, boys," Remus called, and as they tucked themselves into the cart... "Padfoot and I were thinking; we both have next weekend off – Professor McGonagall's agreed to take the Tower for us once a month – and if you like, we could go home, Harry?'

"That'd be fantastic," Harry said enthusiastically. "Can Neville and Ron and Hermione come?'

"Secret's not worth much if you tell the whole school, is it?'

"He's just kidding," Sirius said firmly. "Of course you can, pup. You can all pitch in and help us plan the wedding."

"Wed... Uh?'

"Wedding? You do remember we're planning on getting married?'

"Yeah, of course, but... You never said when."

"That's where the planning comes in," Remus said. "We don't want to wait too long; the Fat Friar is getting a little stressed about our continued and unorthodox living arrangements."

That night, as the two reborn wizards sat in the Room of Requirement and watched the remains of Hufflepuff's Cup smoke and twist on the Headmaster's desk, Neville stretched his legs out and reached for his cup of tea as his bare feet turned to bear feet.

"I showed them to Mum," he said, sipping. "That first time we went to see her, when you went down to see Charlie, and Gran and Remus were having their tea in the hospital lounge. He'd told Harry by now about his mother's stuffed collection, though he hadn't, of course, told him his source of the information."

"Did you? What did she... I mean, did she react at all?'

"We sat on the bed and she petted them," he said. "Dad..." He smiled. "He kept touching the side of his head. Knocking at it really. I didn't get it at first... But then I realized, he wanted to see me do ears."

Harry was astonished. "Is that kind of response level new?' he asked.

"No. Not how you mean. They can respond in small ways to things they find entertaining, it's just never personal. Well, the bubble gum wrappers, yes." He sprouted ears, absently, shrinking and growing them as he pondered. Harry's lips twitched. Neville was always the grown man he'd been here in the Room now, and the extra accessories, when coupled with the Headmaster's robes and the impressive appearance...

Dumbledore, he thought, would be delighted by the look. He wasn't that delighted these days, mind you; he was still trying to determine why his gargoyle absolutely refused to respond to any candy-related passwords any more, offering only a dour 'bad for your teeth, bad for your teeth' whenever pressed. It was a small irritant, but it was still an irritant.

"Anyway." Nev stretched mightily. "Two down... Got a preference on what we do next?'

"Not really," Harry said. "Though... I really don't know how we're going to get at the diary. We don't even know where Malfoy keeps it; of all of them, that was the one that was just... handed to us, and for some weird reason, I don't feel like waiting for him to hand it off to Gin again."

Neville tugged at his bottom lip. The ears shrank and regrew in tandem with his rhythm there.

"No... No, that's definitely not an option. I could take a few guesses," he said. "I know Malfoy Manor pretty well now, and it won't have changed much, even retroactively; they always rebuilt along the original blueprints. Oh, and Drake made a point of giving me the tour when Frankie and Stella were engaged, to show good intent. Getting in there... It's not so much the wards, as that there are always, _always_ people around. Paranoid people. _Professionally_ paranoid people, and that's not even counting the portraits."

"Easy ones first then," Harry suggested. "The locket's right there at 12 Grimmauld Place, and the ring in Little Hangleton. Hell, we could skulk out right now, if we liked, apparate over and pick both up within the hour."

"What about the curse on the ring?'

He waved that off, then stopped.

"There's that," he conceded. "I know how to neutralize it now – I did some research way back when – but it's not exactly easy. We're going to need a few specialty items."

"Such as..."

Harry reached in his pocket and pulled out a list.

"I don't suppose we could just ask the Room for them," he said hopefully.

"Yeah. No." He folded the list. "Alright then. Locket next." He started to stand, then snapped his fingers. "The Malfoy's Christmas Ball."

"Uh?'

"They always have a ball at Christmas, and we'll both be invited this year, because of Sirius. He's House Black now, and Narcissa is a Black. She knows you're going to be adopted, but Black still needs an Heir, and until he was restored, Draco was it. She'll want to curry favor there again, in the interests of him getting... Something, at least. One of the family seats on the Wizengamot, if that's all, but that can be a really big deal, under the properly cultivated circumstances."

"Do you think she'll make up with Andromeda?' Harry asked curiously. "Now that Bellatrix is gone?'

"Not in public. Never that... But in private... Stranger things have happened. Andromeda and Bellatrix were like oil and water, but her relationship with Narcissa wasn't so bad, Gran says. Even now, we know she values Drake's health and safety and happiness above anything else."

"Okay." Harry nodded. "So, diary at Christmas, locket next... That leaves the ring." He sighed at the memory of the list. "Bloody phoenix tears. Must be nice to have those on tap, yeah, but we're rather lacking on the loyalty-to-Dumbledore part these days, so _that's_ not likely to happen."

"We'll figure something out. " Neville closed his eyes. "Harry?'

"Yeah?'

"Can I ask your opinion on something, and please don't go nutters, because I'm actually quite serious?'

"Sure?'

"What would you think about telling Gran about all this?'

" _What?_ Sorry?"

"I've been thinking about what Sirius said, the night after Bellatrix died. That Mum and Dad wouldn't have wanted me to live with false hope; they just would have wanted me to live. He was right you know, but more than that... I think Dad would have wanted that for his mum too. And she can't... She can't let go. He's her child. I get that. But if we were to tell her everything..." He trailed off.

"That'd be cruel, don't you think? Taking away all her hope like that?'

"What's crueller?' he asked. "Taking it away, or leaving her with it when we both know it'll never be fulfilled? Right now, he's her more-than-everything. Like Charlie has to be for the Weasleys, except she's not even going to let herself die till Dad does, Harry, and that's almost sixty years from now. And if we told her about us, and the war that we're preventing, and how she could help finish that job, for Mum and Dad, with us - the job that for her and Mum and Dad, will never ever be over..."

Harry rubbed his neck.

"Do you think she'd believe us," he said at last.

"Yeah. I do. More than that... She could help us. Honestly, I think we're going to need help at some point, and she's the most sensible, practical... _best_ person I know. Scary," he added. "But looking back... In a good way." He hunched his shoulders. "I was really scared for her when I saw the way she reacted to Charlie. Longbottom's not poor, but we're not as well off as she made out, either. Ten thousand galleons is a huge chunk for us, and it's not like she expected the Weasleys to pay it back, and she was promising to support them besides, even before the ruling on the Lestrange estate came in! And okay, maybe that was pretty much guaranteed, but still. She would have offered anyway, you know? She _needs_ something else to fixate on, Harry, besides people with really expensive sons with incurable conditions!"

They sat in silence for a bit.

"Alright," Harry said at last. "Alright. I won't say I don't have reservations... But you're right. This is your life as much as mine, so it's up to you. We could use help, and nobody's ever going to suspect her of anything. " He grinned suddenly. "And she'll be proud of you as anything, for sure, when she realizes you've made Headmaster at eleven."

"She'll be prouder that I killed Bellatrix."

"You're going to tell her that?'

"Yeah." He hunched his shoulders again. "I need to. I need to talk to someone who will understand, and she's my _Gran_ , no matter how old I am."

Harry nodded. "I reckon you do, at that," he said. "Do you want me to be there when you tell her who we are?'

"No. But she'll want to talk to you after."

"Right." He reached for paper. "Now. About that locket..."


	18. Everyone Smiles

**Thursday, October 7** **th**

 **12 Grimmauld Place**

"AND CLEAN THE PLACE UP!"

"Yes, little Master," Kreacher called back, waving from the front stoop of 12 Grimmauld Place as Harry and Neville practically tumbled over each other in their haste to leave. "Kreacher will! The House of Black will be restored to its former glory –"

"Not its _former_ glory," Harry said firmly, picking himself up. "You saw the paint chips and the furniture pamphlets; everything we want done over-with is circled. Your crew will be here in the morning; we're trusting you to keep them in line, but again – _only_ by the means we discussed, alright?'

"Yes, little Master. Kreacher swears. But Master Regulus' chamber stays as it is, little Master swore too!"

"Yes, yes. And the elf heads and the big bookcase, again?"

"The heads is to be put into secret storage as heirlooms of the future elves of Black, and the bookcase goes in front of Mistress' portrait," the house-elf recited. "Turned in, with the books Little Master will send against the wall so she has something good to read."

"Excellent." Harry offered a wave back as they headed off. Kreacher offered a twisted, rather horrific grimace that would have translated, on anyone else, as a radiant beam, and shuffled back inside, the burnt and sizzled remains of Slytherin's locket clutched blissfully to his emaciated grey chest. Neville shuddered convulsively, brushing himself off as best he could.

"Oh my God," he said. "And may I just say... Oh my _God_? There is not enough soap in the _world_! Even _Azkaban_ was cleaner than that!"

"Scary, but true," Harry agreed. "Still. He was so happy! Did you see his face when he was pouring the venom inside the locket? I thought he was going to cry with joy. Or wet himself, one or the two. Possibly both. Still with joy, though."

" _That_ was well done," Neville said, diverted. "Letting him do the honors, I mean. Poor little thing; he looked like he'd fulfilled his life's purpose."

"Yeah." Heavily glamoured again (though not as any variation on their older selves; the Potter and Longbottom genes simply ran too true for random outings) they walked to the closest all-night pub. "What about that crew? D'you think your Gran will notice that all your house-elves but one are missing in the morning?'

"No. Dolly will still be there, and she's the only one she really interacts with. Aside from, I'll be home explaining things, and their absence will be part of the explanation, so..." He lifted a shoulder.

"You worried?'

"Yes, of course." They entered the pub, picked out a back corner table, ordered their drinks and pasties quickly, and settled back. Nev slurped his beer before continuing. "The major issue is going to be that if I'm here, where's _her_ Neville, and her _Harry_ , for that matter. She's likely to beat me over the head –literally – till I answer that one to her satisfaction, so any suggestions would be welcome."

Harry looked troubled. That, honestly, had been a question he'd often wondered on, and simply couldn't answer.

"I reckon the easiest thing is to tell her the truth," he said. "That you just don't know, and have no way of finding out."

"That won't wash," Neville said bluntly. "I was _nine_ when we returned, Harry, or rather her Neville was, and practically a squib in her eyes besides. She'll still think on him, once she processes and accepts this new reality of me, as that Neville: hopeless, helpless, defenceless, and now lost. How is that _easy_?"

Harry slurped his beer unhappily.

"It's not," he said. "I know that. Maybe if you told her that you two merged? That her Nev's still part of you, _in_ you?'

"Oh because that doesn't sound like possession or Dark Magic at _all!"_

"It's not like you've been doing dark things since you got back!"

"Aside from transforming into a giant killer bear and chewing up defenceless, if not innocent, women?'

"Woman. Singular. Very, very singular, which was why you chewed her up, and personally, after everything she did, I'm no longer willing to concede her essential humanity, much less classify her by gender."

Neville just rubbed the back of his neck. Harry tilted his. It crackled impressively.

"Look," he said in his most practical tones. "Old Auror technique, and probably a Headmaster's one too: when dealing with bewildered families and parents wondering where their little angels went wrong... If she's going to ask the unanswerable questions... She's likely to offer speculative explanations herself, past the point. Just sit back, listen, mmhmm a bit in a thoughtful manner, and in the end... Pick the theory she seems most comfortable with, and go from there. I'm really, _really_ sorry, mate, but that's the best I've got – aside from suggesting that since her Nev-and-Harry disappeared together, they're likely together now, wherever they are, and at that age, you may reassure her, though her Nev might have been hopeless and helpless... _I_ was most certainly not. I had survival down to an art form, and my magic started manifesting when I was six months old besides. That was why I _did_ have survival down to an art form."

Neville brightened a bit. "That might help," he said. "Actually, I'm sure it would. And I'll be sure to point out too, that my dad and your dad worked together sometimes, and made a damned good team from what she's told me herself."

The pasties arrived, piping and savory and piled about with thick golden chips with gravy. They ate rapidly: Harry because he was absolutely starving as per usual, and Neville because October had arrived with a cold snap, and Beorn, as a result, was wide awake, on the edible prowl, and having absolutely none of his base-form's diet business.

"How t'hell did you ever survive at the Dursleys' with Dash's metabolism again?' Nev asked around a huge mouthful. "Even with the Notice-Me-Nots and the nectar and ants, they had to have noticed all the missing food, specially in the winter when the gardens were dead and there weren't a lot of bugs."

Harry lowered his pasty.

"I'm not proud of myself there," he confessed. "But it really was a matter of survival. There's a big supermarket about a mile away from Privet Drive, and I used to apparate in from my cupboard after hours, load up on groceries, and apparate back. I fixed a drawer in the fridge and another cupboard above the oven with more Notice-Me-Nots, and just stored everything I got there. I didn't have any money to pay for it, of course, so I beefed up the security instead, discreetly. They used to have a pile of break-ins and cash robberies when I was a kid, and I made sure they didn't, for those two years anyway. The money I saved them, even if they didn't know I saved it for them, more than made up for whatever I took."

"Makes sense," Neville took another huge bite. "Yum. Needs more meat, though."

"Of course it does." He poured more vinegar over his chips. "You should go hunting. It might take the edge off."

"I'd planned to this weekend, in that forest you described back your house, but then you invited Ron and Hermione, so that's out."

"Actually, it's not. Bill got offered last minute tickets to the Puddlemere United /Cannons match from a friend called out on business and is taking him and Ginny, and Hermione has decided to take advantage of all of our absences to hole up in the library and finish the research for her term History of Magic project before all the good books are gone."

"History of Magic project. Now there's a phrase I never thought I'd hear in any timeline."

"Yeah. How's yours coming?'

"Please. We're a hundred thirty nine. We made - _are_ \- history."

"The future, actually."

"And that's why I chose as my topic likely developments in herbological magics and potions, based on the major players in the fields today and their established and predictable patterns of research and development as drawn in from past Masters. Double duty; I get to hand it in as my term potions projects as well."

"You do remember that you're supposed to be eleven, right? Not a Master of the either subject?'

"I'm dumbing it down. Obviously. Oh, and the brilliance of the subject matter will be nicely qualified by the hair-tearing fact that there won't be a correctly spelled word or a properly placed comma in the entire product. That's the part that's going to take me the longest; I'm trying to think on how many different ways I can spell 'verminous chrysanthemum'." He mopped up the last of his gravy with his last chip. "You finished there?'

"Way ahead of you." Harry burped lightly, and reached for his money pouch. "God, I love being able to digest grease properly again. Thanks for the tip on the 'Room of Accio Random Couch-Change' by the way. Remus is great, but he insists on that age-appropriate allowance, unless it's for books."

"No problem." The Once-and-Future Headmaster of Hogwarts drained the last of his beer and heaved himself up. "Alright. Let's go. It's early yet; we might actually get a few hours' decent sleep for a change."

"Have you decided how you're going to approach the subject with her?' Harry asked as they left the pub. "In the first place?'

"Yeah, but I'll wait to tell you till it's all over, alright? Right now, I just want to go back to the tower and bed, and if I let myself think about it too much, I won't sleep."

"Sure, mate." He patted his back. They ducked into an alley, there was a loud crack as of a car backfiring, and they were gone.

 **Friday, October 8** **th**

 **Transfiguration**

"Ooh, nice wand!" Hermione reached out eagerly. Harry snapped his hand back and rapped her knuckles sharply. "Ow!"

"Bad witch. Don't grab," he said reprovingly. "Let's try that one again. Would you like to examine my wand, Miss Granger? Why yes, Mr. Potter, I'd be ever so delighted to make its acquaintance, may I beg you for an introduct... OW!" He yelped as Professor McGonagall rapped _him_ sharply on the head. "What was _that_ for?'

"We have had this discussion before, have we not? Three points from Gryffindor, Mr. Potter," she said severely. "For completely inappropriate crudity. Oh, don't give me that." She sniffed at his look of disbelieving affront. "I wasn't born yesterday, and I taught your mother besides."

"My _mother_? Not my father?'

She just sniffed again, and swept off down the aisle. Neville elbowed him.

"Do try to remember," he muttered."Your proper age? And... Again... Everyone else's?"

"I was! Do! I didn't mean it that way; she's just got a great dirty, filthy _mind_!"

"Don't drool, Potter. It's unhygienic, to say the least."

"Can I see, can I see?' Hermione implored, though this time from a respectful distance. "And where's your amber?'

"Sure," he said, jerking his attention back and offering her the wand that he'd chosen from the Lestrange vault. Sirius had returned it to him that morning, and he'd fancied that it had been quite, if sedately, glad to see him again. The feeling had been most mutual; his amber wand, as he grew more comfortable with it (or perhaps, it with him), had, as Ollivander had promised, been acting more and more whimsically. Potions in particular was becoming more and more of a challenge, to the point last session where Snape had actually sent him a message demanding that he get another wand for active use in his class, and noting that he intended to do the same so that they could toss their two Horntails in a drawerand let them canoodle at each other for at least the three scheduled hours a week. He hadn't phrased it quite like that, of course, but that had definitely been the gist. "Er. I'm giving it a holiday. This one's aspen and hippogryph feather."

"Did you get it at Ollivanders?' she asked, giving it a wave. It ignored her. She frowned. "Why isn't it doing anything?"

"Dunno. Maybe it's a wand that only likes boys? OWWWWW!" He roared as McGonagall pounced on him at approximately the speed of sound. "What? It's possible! Aspen's got a valid history that way; I looked it up!"

"Your _mother_ , Mr. Potter. Do not make me tarnish what little memory we of Wizarding Britain have of her by invoking best-forgotten and sorry episodes of her pre-heroic past!"

"She saved the world," Neville pointed out. "I think Wizarding Britain would forgive her a bit of habitual vulgarity."

"Don't be cheeky, Mr. Longbottom. I've having lunch with your grandmother this coming week; I'd hate to disappoint her with a bad report of your manners after you've got off to such a promising start. Which reminds me." She reached into her pocket and removed a small, thick book. "While I'm admittedly impressed by your above-average vocabulary and appropriate and applicable patterns of usage, I am equally dismayed by your spelling. This is called a dictionary. Use it. I very nearly had to hire a translator to decipher your last essay."

"I have one already," he said meekly. "But you have to know _how_ to spell a word, Professor, before you can look it up."

"Professor Flitwick charmed this one just for you. He was..." She adjusted her glasses. " _Delighted_ to do it for you. No, _thrilled._ Open it to the letter with which your word begins – one can hope you can at least manage that much – and speak clearly. The pages will turn on their own, and the appropriate entry will be highlighted."

"Here, allow me." Harry grabbed the dictionary and turned to V. "Verminous," he said clearly. The pages ruffled. "Will you look at that. Verminous. V. E. R. M. I.N. O. U. S. Of the nature of, or resembling, vermin. Let's try something else. 'Chrysanthemum'. C.H.R.Y.S..."

"Your mother was a hamster, Potter," Neville muttered at him under his breath as he grabbed back. "And your father smelled of elderberries. _For_ the record."

"Your folks are Monty Python fans?' he muttered back. "Really?' Behind them, Hermione brightened.

"Your gran got the package then? Of the movies my parents boxed up?"

"She did, thank you ever so, Granger. The nurse says my dad's been making clopping noises now every time he wanders down the ward, and my mother refuses to take a bath."

"Will you lot shut up?' Ron snapped from his seat in front of them. "I am _trying_ to get this stupid, _stupid_ spell to work!" He glared over the shoulder of his crisp new black robes (complete with crumb repulsion and auto-ironing charms) and from under his professionally styled shock of red hair. "You saw the letter from Mum; I only get the new Nimbus this summer if I get all Es and Os, even in Potions, and she _meant_ it!"

"It is not a stupid spell, Mr. Weasley." Professor McGonagall stopped beside him. "Don't clutch your wand so; it will only get nervous if it senses your abject desperation, and will fail to respond entirely. There, that's it. Now, extend your little finger along the left side there, flick your wrist, and... Excellent! Ten points to Gryffindor!"

"Woot!" Ron cheered. "One more twig in the basket!"

Neville stuffed his fist in his mouth and nearly slid under the desk. Harry's shoulders shook.

"She's doing it on purpose," he muttered as he desperately tried to quell his laughter. "I _know_ she is. She _has_ to be!"

And at that, the bell rang... Neville sobered immediately, emerged from under the desk, stuffed his books hastily away, and, visibly bracing himself, slung his bag over his shoulder.

"Good luck, man," Harry murmured as he packed his own things. "Be strong, now."

'Thanks, Harry."

"Say hi to your Gran for me, mate," Ron said, looking up. "And tell her Charlie's doing good. Still sleeping, but the Healers' last reports said the latest graft on his core looks like it's starting to take."

"That's fantastic," Neville said. "I'll definitely pass it on."

"You're leaving now, Neville?' Hermione asked. "But we're not done classes for the day yet!"

"I've been having some headaches," he lied awkwardly. "Gran made me an appointment in Hogsmeade to have my eyes checked, and we're going to lunch after. I probably won't be back till tonight, right before I floo out with Harry and Professor Black and Professor Lupin for the weekend."

"Ah," she said. "Well, we'll take notes for you. Have fun!" She hurried off. The boys followed quietly, Ron mumbling and flicking his wand again as he went.


	19. As You Drift Past the Flowers

**Longbottom Manor**

Augusta Domitia Claudia, Dame Lady Longbottom ('Dame' and 'Lady' were Muggle titles, and if they didn't exactly grant the witch in question extra points or credibility in the Wizarding world, they didn't, given the source, do her any harm either), _nee_ Augusta Domitia Claudia Fawley, had been accused of many things in her lifetime, but never of being an inherently unobservant woman. She had realized for quite some time now that something was profoundly troubling her grandson Neville - troubling him far beyond any level that her fairly extensive, if by nature rather structured, imagination could comprehend. Given _that_ , she also recognized that Neville, if not remotely like his mother and father in any recognizable manner, _was_ exactly like _her_ in the one way at least; he heartily disliked being pushed into talking on a subject that he did not want to talk on. He was, in fact, more likely to bite the extended and worried hand (politely of course; she'd managed to instill that much in him) if it was extended before he was damned good and ready to accept it.

Augusta had, therefore, extended nothing: only proceeded to half-worry herself to death in discreet and proper, socially approved style. She was not so naive to think that any child who had witnessed his parents' tortuous descent into insanity could be unaffected in either the short or long term, and she couldn't help but wonder (though she never said anything; that kind of borrowed trouble tended to come with rather high interest rates), if the effects of her grandson's horrific experience were finally coming to a kind of twisted bloom that would eventually strangle him entirely. The fact that he'd only been sixteen months old that night had only disturbed her more as time passed; the entire extended Longbottom family's (even Algie's, the great pillock) chronic worry for their heir's magic, in fact, had not been so much worry that he was a natural Squib, but rather that he'd been so definitively traumatized by what he'd been forced to oversee that he was rejecting himself as a magical being entirely.

 _Literally_ forced to oversee, for small Neville been strapped in a high chair when Crouch and the Lestranges arrived, and the thought that he'd been so easily positioned to 'supervise' the proceedings, Crouch Jr. had testified, his little wet tongue flicking wildly and his wide eyes glued on his victims' mother with feral glee, had...

Amused them.

 _This is how it's done, ickle baby, Bellatrix had cackled. Watch and learn, bitty Nevvy. Make the U nice and long, and remember, you have to MEAN it. Come on, Mummy. Come on, Daddy. It's time for Nevvy's lessons! Let's... help...him... LEARN!_

Augusta Longbottom sat in her high-backed chair in her formal parlor, watching and waiting as the boy stood at the window, back to her, and gazed sightlessly out at his beloved, gently fading gardens. Sixteen months old, she thought... And nineteen months since she'd taken him that completely ordinary spring afternoon for one of their completely unremarkable twice-monthly visits to Frank and Alice. For some reason, Neville had woken that morning as if it hadn't been like every other morning since the first – no, he'd woken with completely perplexing and unwarranted and alarmingly obvious _hope._ Hope that this time something would be different. That something might have, would have, could have _changed,_ that...

Augusta closed her eyes briefly, there in her high-backed chair in her impervious parlor that smelled ever of gentle, fading gardens and untouchable memories.

Nothing would. Nothing _could_.

But for that one moment, one hour, she'd watched as Neville had fairly vibrated with the belief that it _had._ And even though he'd come home empty-eyed, devastated and dark in a manner that, much to her undying shame, he obviously hadn't even expected her to _notice_ , it had been enough to make her, too remember what she had believed at the beginning of Longbottom's long nightmare, before the plot had yet and so firmly established itself. And it had been enough (along with that shame; her eyes had been opened in more ways than the one that day) for... _something_... to force her extend her own hands and seize again that which her grandson, at nine years old, had just so gently, and in such approved and properly discreet and socially approved style, set down forever.

 _Someone_ had to have it, she'd mused. It was just plain unfair that poor Frank and Alice should have to face the long decades ahead without even one person in the world to look out for them on anything but the purely physical level. So she'd hoped, deliberately at first, and after awhile, the deliberate had become a habit. And sometimes, in Augusta Longbottom's dreams, if for just a fleeting moment, it became something close to real.

She listened to him sigh lightly, and watched as he squared his small, plump shoulders, removed his hands from his robe pockets, and turned to face her. His round, sweet face was not quite as round, she thought, as it had been when she put him on the train for Hogwarts, and his eyebrows were definitely darker. She waited patiently as he came forward and sat opposite in what had been his grandfather's chair, on the very edge so that his feet would lie flat on the floor. Augusta rather hoped he would hit a growth spurt soon, if only for his own dignity's sake.

The sigh turned into an explosive gust of breath.

"Where to start," he said, almost to himself. He hadn't realized he'd spoken out loud. He squared his shoulders again.

"Gran," he said firmly. "I want to show you something, alright? As pre-emptive proof of what I'm about to tell you. Only you have to promise not to scream, alright?"

"I do not _scream_ , Neville," she said with that formidable dignity of her own. It took every ounce of self-control she had not to laugh. _Good_ ** _God_** , she thought. _Where did_ that _come from?_ "You _know_ this."

"I do," he conceded. "But I'd still like your promise."

Her lips did twitch at that, if only barely... He looked so... _grave_ , the poor dear. So deadly, deadly _serious_ , like an old, old man in a child's body.

"Would you like me to make an Unbreakable Vow?' she asked politely.

He tugged at his lower lip. She frowned, momentarily distracted. _That_ was a new habit, she thought, displeased, and she wondered where he'd picked it up. It wasn't exactly unattractive; he had good enough teeth even without corrective spells, but still. She frowned again, as she blinked, and blinked again.

Had his ears just...

Surely it was a trick of the light. It had to be.

"No," he was saying judiciously. "No, I don't think that will be necessary."

"You don't think..." She stared at him, taken aback. In the end though, though she didn't respond verbally, he'd read her assent well.

So she didn't scream when he reached down to remove his shoes and socks, and didn't scream when he retrieved his wand from his sleeve and waved it about, clearing the room in an instant in a manner that sent every stick of furniture but the chair she sat on scuttling back against the walls (though she did gasp rather loudly; she'd known he was doing rather alarmingly well at school, but there was alarming and there was _alarming_ ).

She didn't even scream (though her bitten tongue was swollen for a week after; she could have healed herself of course, but she kept the wound as a reminder never, never, never to assume that just because she, Dame Lady Augusta Domitia Claudia had given up (mostly) on hope, that the world could not yet yield her any surprises) when...

Without a word, without a wand... Her eleven year old grandson transformed into a gigantic bear.

That being done, and that being said, she felt perfectly justified in fainting. There had been nothing in the bargain: nothing at _all_ , after all, forbidding _that_.

Neville (or the thing purporting to be Neville) poured her tea, eminently mindful if the wand-tip nestled next to his collar, and sat back properly at her indication. Augusta sipped, the still-pointed wand never wavering. After the second sip, she lowered her cup, though she didn't put it down.

"Very well," she said. "You brewed it as properly as I taught you. I am, in light of that fact, and as an hour has passed in my company without your resorting to any liquid that might include Polyjuice Potion, willing to accept your identity, at least for the moment. Don't get too comfortable though. You are..." She sipped a third time, deeply. "On _notice_. Now. Where did you get all this power, young man? If I find out that you have been dabbling with things best left to no one at all, you _will_ regret it."

"I've not gone Dark, Gran," Neville said patiently. He looked amused. She hated it when he looked amused. His lips curled just like her late husband's, and _goodness. That_ was new too _._ His eyebrow was quirking just like...

She quelled the comparison immediately, pushing the constant image of her son's face from her mind as firmly as she could manage it.

"Excellent," she said. "I'm glad to hear it. Go on."

"I've traveled here from a parallel world, on a mission to finish off Voldemort for once and all," he said obligingly. "As well as to accomplish some further unrelated business. Well, not unrelated. Very related, actually, in all ways, but let's start with the first. I'm sure you'll have enough questions there to be going on with."

There was not enough tea in the _world_ , she thought, as she lowered her cup.

"A parallel world," she repeated disbelievingly. "You don't say."

"I do," he said. "I'm dead there, actually. At a hundred thirty seven," he added hastily. "I lived out my full lifespan and then some. I had to; the invoked ritual involved four people, or rather souls; two murdered and two who'd died naturally, for balance, you know..."

"You _murdered_ people to complete a _ritual_? Neville Frank _Longbottom_!"

"No, Gran." He actually rolled his eyes. "I did not. Voldemort did. I – we – just capitalized on the fact of their misfortune. With their souls' full consent, I might add, and now they're back with me, and quite determined to avenge the acts, though again, he's not really the main reason we're all here. We just need to get rid of him because he's a big pillock, and is in the way of ruining. Erhm." He considered his words. "Everything."

"I see." She sat back. For some wild reason, quite beyond her ken, she actually found herself considering the possibility that he was telling the truth. It would certainly explain quite a lot, she thought. Small things, mostly, but then, when it came down to it, the small things were generally the ones that required the most of that. Then again, maybe she'd just been reading one too many of Frank's old muggle science fiction and fantasy novels. Time passed slowly of the evenings at Longbottom Manor, and sleep was hard to come by... That was her excuse, she thought, and she was sticking to it. "Surely though, you've been here – in this world, that is - long enough to realize that your friend Potter took care of that already?'

"Don't make like you're humoring me, Gran. It's really annoying, and bad manners besides. I know I don't look it, but I'm actually your elder, like I said."

"Cheeky," she said, but it was automatic. Glamours were a possibility, she thought, but... No. The oculist would have spotted _those_ right away.

Alien cloning it was, then.

"He's gone," Neville elaborated. "But he's not _dead_. Not _dead_ dead, I know you've had to have heard through your contacts in the ministry that his spirit, or what was left of it, was possessing Professor Quirrell?'

She sighed.

"Yes," she conceded. "I have."

"Brilliant. Well, Harry and I are on that. And the other two as well, though Harry doesn't know about them. Or rather, he does, but doesn't remember he does. He doesn't know about much, actually; that was part of the ritual too. He had to come back blind because he's the most vulnerable of all of us and could ruin the whole thing if Voldemort cottons on to the fact that they're mentally linked before we finish him off, so at the moment, he just thinks we two died and somehow ended up going back in time together. It would be really bad, see, if he – Voldemort, that is – got any inkling of the fact that a ritual like the one I just described – one that can allow you to cross worlds – was possible. It was easier just to erase that information than risk it getting picked up on in a really unlucky moment."

Augusta drained her tea, and set her wand aside.

"Her Majesty," she informed her grandson, 'Would absolutely _love_ you. You have the kind of creative, paranoid imagination that she adores in her prospective informants."

"You're actually admitting you're a spy?" he said, surprised. "You never would in my world; you insisted, right to the end, that you only ever got together with her once a month to drink tea and despair of your relatives."

"Nev... Oh, never mind. Of course I'm not a spy. And I never despaired of you, really. I might have thrown up my hands now and again, but it is _not_ the same thing."

"You got over that when I was made Deputy Head of Hogwarts," he noted. "For the record. And you were downright proud – for you – when I made full Headmaster."

"I was, was I," she said dryly. "I'll give you this, you lie fantastically well."

"And I'd take fantastic offense at that, only from you, I know it's a fantastic compliment. Though I _was_ telling the truth there, for the record. My teacher said I had a natural talent for it," he said modestly. "Lying, that is. I'm pants at Occlumency, so he taught me the other instead. Mind you, I prefer to think on it as acting. Lying just sounds so... Crass."

"Mmhmm. Alright then, Headmaster. What was your wife's occupation? May I presume you have one?'

"Of course I do. Or rather, did." His eyes shadowed. "She died about seven years ago now. She was the landlady at the Leaky Cauldron."

"Name?" she demanded.

"Oh no," he said. "Little Nev's still blooming right where I planted him, waiting for me to finish the job so he can come back and live his life here again, and I'm _not_ seeding you with the kind of information that could... OW, Gran! Not in my _eye_!"

"You will," she said, on her feet now, and standing over him with her wand pressing quite painfully. "Have considerably more to worry on than your eye if you don't return me my grandson this instant, you bounder. I've put up with this nonsense quite enough, I think, if only for the fact that you do make a proper cup of tea, but now..."

Neville yelped in alarm as she placed an indelicate heel carefully. "If you don't want me to step down... It's time to speak up. _Where is my Neville_ , and exactly how long of the thirty seconds you have to return him to me should I expect it to take before my sadly rheumatic knee gives out?'

"Gran," he said, strangled. "Please. Think of your great-grandchildren!"

"Oh, I am," she said grimly. "Perhaps you'd best think on yours?"

"Bugger," he said. "For God's..." He closed his eyes. "He's with Harry."

"And where is Harry?'

"At Hogwar... OW! Gran, _please_! Hannah will kill me; she..."

"Hannah... Hannah Abbott?' she inquired sweetly.

"Yes, yes, she..." He paused, and swore again. " _Bugger_!"

"Indeed. And...Thank you." She removed the heel and sat down again, setting her wand aside and refreshing her tea. Neville struggled to his feet, sweating, and collapsed in his chair.

"That," he informed her, "was not _on_."

"Effective though," she noted. "Alright. Let's suppose... And it's only a supposition that I'm willing to entertain till I come up with a reasonable explanation on why you're suddenly channeling your long-lost American _relatives_ , of all people, in my personal parlor... That I accept your explanation. Parallel worlds and a ritual that involves four souls: two murdered and two naturally deceased... It only follows, therefore, if balance was so crucial an element, that the outgoing power emitted by two natural, aged and dying souls should be counterbalanced by the incoming power of two natural, _living,_ children's, souls. Those would be my Neville's, and young Potter's, obviously. May I ask who is in charge of them now, in your world?"

He gazed at her, astonished. She waved him off.

"Er," he said. "That'd be... Er. My son Frankie, and his wife Stella. Wow. That was _really_ impressive, Gran!"

"Mm. Wouldn't they be rather aged by now?'

"Not terribly, no. Hannah and I had him when we were close to sixty. He was our first and only. For a long time we thought we couldn't have any at all, but he surprised us."

" _Sixty_?' she repeated, alarmed. "And with the bloodlines crossed through the Abbotts... Neville... Was he a..."

She couldn't finish the sentence. He smiled at her reassuringly.

"He's magical," he assured her. "Not very, but enough to manage elementary wandwork."

"He didn't –doesn't - have enough magic to go to Hogwarts?" Her face fell.

"No, no. He does – did; he even got a letter, but in the end, he decided – and it _was_ his decision; he's always known his own mind – that he just didn't want to put himself through the kind of pain and struggle that that would have entailed when he wouldn't have likely achieved a single OWL in anything that involved more than pure theory. So he went to Eton instead, and Cambridge after, and really, Gran, he was fine. Is fine. He's had a wonderful life, a great career, has loads of friends in both worlds, and his children –he's got four of them; three girls and a boy – are amazing. Stella Greengrass, their mother, is Daphne Greengrass's daughter, and Daphne married, believe it or not, a Muggle, so they've got loads of magical talent between them. And being a Squib or a near-Squib doesn't have nearly the stigma that is does now anyway. In fact, in certain circles – goblin circles specifically – it's considered an advantage, if you have the mind and instincts to overcome the challenges, anyway."

"He works for the _goblins_?"

"We've got lots of time to talk on that sort of thing later, now that you know the essentials. Can we get on with the topics at hand, please?"

"These _are_ the essentials," she said tartly. 'Good Lord, child. You're a hundred thirty seven – thirty nine, now - and you haven't learned that yet? How long does it take?'

He sighed.

"I've missed you so much," he said wistfully. "Horribly. You have no idea, Gran."

Augusta found herself smiling at him softly... And mentally, quickly, before she could stop herself, and in that most unladylike manner, shrugged. Perhaps that old Muggle saying that Her Majesty was so fond of really was true... Perhaps one did have to make the decision to believe before one would be able to see...

Then again, Her Majesty had also told her - many, _many_ times - that she needed to get out more. Parallel worlds were a bit far, mind you, but she supposed that accepting visitors was a good beginning.

"I suppose you must have... You may kiss me, then," she said regally, and as she put her wand down and Neville slid off the chair and came to nestle in her arms, she pressed her lips to his smooth blond head and closed her eyes, recalling yet another royal cliché.

 _In for a penny..._

"Something's bothering you," she said directly. "Beyond the obvious. It has been, for a long time now. Something beyond..." She waved a hand, not letting him go. "All of this. What is it, child?'

"I'm not sure I'm ready to tell you," he said honestly, from the starched, bony haven of her arms. "I thought I was... It was the whole reason I decided to tell you... But it really might change your opinion of me, Gran. No, it might change your opinion of Little Nev, when he gets back, because. Well. Whatever potential I have... He has too. He _is_ me, when I was that age. This age. _Exactly_ me. He had to be, or we wouldn't have been able to swap out. There are other worlds beyond this one and mine, you know, and some of them did fit the rather precise physical and temporal criteria of the ritual. Souls though... They're a lot harder to match."

She helped him sit on her knee, or rather, to lean against it in imitation.

"I have not," she said. "Been an exact paragon of motherhood, Neville, and if your father were ever to return to us... He would tell you, I'm sure, that I never have been. Never mind the fact that one does not become a member of the Order of the Vulture in Her Muggle Majesty's Very, Very Secret Service without learning how to press, fold, charm, and properly store one's personal skeletons in the proverbial closet."

"The Order of the _Vulture_?'

She twisted his ear lightly.

"There are gentlemanly quirks," she said wryly, 'or rather, ladylike quirks, and then there is simple bad taste. Then, too, there are Royals with rather more of a sense of perverse humor than is good for them."

"It's not that," he said. "Well, that too... Only... After you died, Gran... My patronus changed."

"I'm sorry?'

"It was a toad," he explained. "Trevor, remember... But after you died, I got Valerian." He retrieved her wand, concentrated, and waved. The huge silvery bird lurched and glowered at them, flapping once around the room and fading out. She kissed him again.

"Tell me," she said. "I promise I will attempt to curb my disapproval."

The small boy before her ran a hand over his hair and closed his own eyes. She waited.

"You saw," he blurted. "I'm an animagus. A bear. After I got back... In the spring of '90... We went to see mum and dad. You won't remember, I'm sure..."

"I remember," she said.

"The weekend after," he said. "I brewed a Somnolia potion. I put it in your tea. And I went to Azkaban."

Augusta Longbottom processed that... Then pulled back slightly and looked down at her agonized grandson.

"You brewed a Somnolia potion?' she repeated.

"Um. Yes. And went to Azkaban, and..."

"But that potion requires a Mastery, child! You're not even allowed to attempt it without one; it may take only thirty minutes, but it has over a hundred different ingredients!"

"Yeah, it's a bit tricky, but the house-elves were very helpful that way, and... You _did_ hear me say I went to Azkaban, right?'

"Yes, yes. Gracious me. A Potions Master!" She shook her head. "Whatever happened to Herbology?'

"Oh, I have a Mastery in that too. And a PHD in Botanical Science from Oxford, and a Master's – not a Mastery, but Master's – in Chemistry."

She stared down at him.

"They all kind of go together," he assured her. "You'd be surprised, really. It wasn't nearly as much work as it sounds."

"And you became Headmaster besides?"

"At seventy three, yeah. I was Deputy for ten years before that though, and Herbology Professor for twenty-three years before _that_."

She retrieved her mug, and sipped – no, slurped – in a most undignified manner.

"Very well," she said when she was properly bolstered. "You may tell me about Azkaban now. I'll need to hear every detail, I think, to counter the rapid swelling of my head coming on from having spawned such a spectacularly over-achieving grandchild." She held up a finger. "Wait. First... Tell me. Or rather ... Don't. You killed He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named too, didn't you?'

"No. He killed himself in the end, sort of, with a bit of assistance from Harry anyway."

"Did you get Bellatrix, at least?'

He hesitated. When he spoke, close as she was, she had to lean forward to hear him.

"Not in my world," he whispered. "Not in my world, Gran."

He clung to her, desperately and completely and utterly eleven just for that moment, and in that moment... Augusta Longbottom understood everything. Believed everything... And _saw_ everything. Everything, and she felt her grandson's hot tears soaking through the velvet bodice of her long green gown, and patted his cheek gently.

"My boy," she said. He sniffled, and looked up, his round little face smeared with tears. She wiped them away.

"You're not mad," he asked in that timid manner she knew so well. Frank, she thought, had been a timid child, for all of about a week anyway, till Algie had laughed it out of him. Neville, she reflected, was made of tougher stuff. "Or disgusted? I mean... I know who she was, but... I _killed_ her, Gran! I ..." He struggled valiantly. "I _murdered_ her. I chewed her up, and... and spit her back in her own _face_ , and... And I _laughed_. And I _meant_ it!"

"Sometimes," Augusta Domitia Claudia Dame Lady Longbottom said grimly, "you have to mean it, Neville."

"But..."

"No buts." She took his face in both hands again and kissed his sweaty forehead regally again, and said again, as she had in the side room at the funeral parlor... "Longbottom is satisfied."

He hauled a handkerchief out of his trouser pocket, and scrubbed at his face. She motioned him back to his grandfather's chair, and resettled her skirts.

"Dolly," she called. There was a pop, and a frantic, frazzled house-elf popped in.

"Yes, Madam," she said. "Dolly is here. Dolly is going crazy, Dolly thinks, but Dolly is here. What can Dolly do for Madam? Only Dolly is begging Madam, don't make Dolly go to Grimmauld Place with the other elves to help with the cleaning there, because Dolly popped over to give help with an especially big and dirty carpet, and..." She shuddered violently and convulsively, and wailed... "There were _things_ under it!"

' _Grimmauld_ Place?'

"You don't have to go back, Dolly," Neville said hastily. "And the second shift should be arriving soon in any case; some of the elves at Hogwarts volunteered when Harry told them that the renovations were going to be his wedding present to Professors Black and Lupin. May we get more tea, please? And maybe some beef sandwiches?'

"Tea, yes. Beef, no. Dolly is deciding that this is a vegetarian household now. No more live things, not after watching Kreacher eat those..." She couldn't even finish the sentence, only shuddered again, and quite nearly gagged at the memory. Augusta sighed as she popped out again.

"I will take you out for dinner, I think," she said. "When we are done here, and before I return you to school. Now, why don't you tell me more about this ritual and what it's meant to accomplish, and oh yes, most immediately, it sounds like, how we intend to rid ourselves of That _Thing?_ '

Neville tugged at his lip again... She watched closely this time. Sure enough...

"You might want to watch your ears," she said. "They seem to sprout when you do that."

"Uh? Oh." He dropped his hand. "Sorry. Habit. It amused literally eight decades worth of blubbing, homesick first years. Alright. Alright. I think the best way to do this is to call in the other two. They can help me explain some of the technical specifics from the other side of things, if you have questions, and you might want to see ... One of them... Again in any case."

"Oh?'

"No screaming," he warned. "And no fainting either. You scared the living _shite_ out of me there; I thought I'd killed you on the spot!"

"Watch your _mouth_!" she snapped. He only laughed.

"Keep that one on tap," he advised, and, reaching into his pocket again, extracted a tiny miniature portrait, leaned it carefully against the coffee table opposite, and tapped it three times with his wand.

 **NOTES**

 **A couple of points in terms of confused questions: :)**

 **Q: Neville said that he can't assume his form outside the R of R, yet he is now: WTF?**

 **A: In this instance, 'can't' doesn't mean 'cannot', it means 'really, really shouldn't.' Neville CAN change, with the help of glamours (he and Harry both can) but up until he told his Gran, it wasn't ADVISABLE. He is, as a grown man, still quite recognizably our Nev, or at least a Longbottom, and there would be questions if he wandered about anywhere where people could/might recognize him. The one time he went out after getting the locket from Grimmauld place, he and Harry went to a Muggle pub, and neither were glamoured to look like their original adult selves, but as other men. Now though, he has an official Longbottom identity courtesy of Augusta herself, so as long as he's careful not to go to places where people expect to see both him AND his younger self together (or makes the arrangement for a Polyjuiced younger version as accompaniment, which he might have to) he can be occasionally an adult in public. This will come in handy.**

 **Q. Neville said to Harry that he didn't know where little Nev and Harry are, and that he needed to tell his Gran something, so he'd like suggestions. Yet... He knows. WTF?**

 **A. Remember, please, that Harry, though in the current dark on the ritual and why they're actually reborn, is still 139 and Head of the Aurors. Neville was aware of this when he left for this new dimension, and that he'd need at certain points to come across as bewildered as Harry is on certain subjects. He therefore prepped a list of questions that he might need answers for, that Harry, as a suspicious paranoid bugger (naturally and by training) would expect him to ASK. Neville is, fortunately, an excellent liar, trained by Portrait Snape (Snape himself said he was a natural), and as this plan has been literally YEARS in the making - they couldn't start it properly till both he and Harry died naturally, he's had a lot of time to practice.**


	20. Chapter 20

I will no longer be posting this story on ff. HOWEVER. If you would like to continue reading it, you can go to A03 (Archive of our Own) and search for the story under BlueMaple. It will be posted there in entirety.

Thanks for following!

Xo Blue Maple


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